Hi, I'm Chud. This is an 18+ blog where I like to read and write dark content for JJK.
This blog is NOT spoiler-free.
She/her
Part time student-I love Calculus :D
Always open to feedback, comments, constructive criticism, and questions!
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Yandere Doujinshi Recs
Requests: OFF until RE7 fic is done
Asks: Open
Recent fics
Animal farm: You’re stuck at a dead end where an arranged marriage seems like your only option—until a job at Mr. Gojo’s Ranch offers a way out. There, exotic and hard-to-adopt hybrids are cared for, and everyone, including you, must earn their keep. Inspired by Mr. A’s Farm and Cloud Meadow.
Thank you for your Cervix!: Kenjaku is your standard toxic influencer. The rumors about him are more than likely true and him pushing boundaries with you being a fan should've been the first red flag.
Aww but whatever, you know deep down he's not a creep.
Sporangiospore: While on vacation, your rental car breaks down. Luckily for you it looks like there's a house deep in the swamp. Hopefully they'll let you charge your phone. Resident Evil 7 AU. No RE characters will appear.
Tropes~ Bully love interest, childhood enemies to lovers, coerced relationship.
Synopsis~ Sukuna Itadori is the biggest bully in town. You should know - he tormented you from your childhood in the same neighborhood all the way until high-school. He became popular, the captain of the football team. When the war starts, the Itadori's invite you for dinner. There they ask you to accept Sukuna when he asks you out, this time. After all he'll be shipping out in a few weeks. What's one date?
Tw/Cw~ Sukuna is darkish in this fic. WW2, war, forced relationship?
Author's Note~ Does this count as dark? This Sukuna is lighter than canon Sukuna but he's still icky. Hope y'all like this!
Divider by @/saradika-graphics
You look down, avoiding his gaze. You could feel the weight of his reddish brown eyes on you. And you knew what was coming. Sure enough, a second later Sukuna was at your side. You clutched your family's mail in your hand. Of all places the post office! It was bad enough when he cornered you in secluded hallways back when you were in high-school, or on the walk home after working a shift at the soda fountain. But in the post office of all places! Where a few of your neighbors and your parents' friends were.
He says your name all low and controlled, like everything about him. You look up at him for a second before your eyes flicker back down to the stack of letters in your hand. You flick through them, eyes not really reading the names and addresses. He says your name again, a slight scoff coming from him.
“Come with me to the pictures Friday night,” he demands, because Sukuna Itadori never asks.
You don’t meet his eyes.”I can't, I'm busy,” you say.
“With what?” You can hear the snarl in his voice.
Last time you told him your cousin was in town and you had to show her around, he had shown up at your house the next morning and escorted you and her around in his brand new automobile. The time before that you had told him you had to work at the soda fountain, he had spent a few hours sitting at the counter during your shift then he had insisted on walking you home. And before that at your graduation he had asked you to come to a party for him and his twin Jin, you had had to go, he hadn’t left your side once and even had slung his muscular arm over your shoulders by the end of the night.
“I’ve got to wash my hair.” You know it’s a lousy excuse the moment it leaves your lips, but it’s all you got.
“Alright,” he says, his lips pulled tight. He looks over his shoulder, the muscles in his neck tight.
“I’ll see you later,” he says.
Your shoulders sink in relief as he leaves. How could you ever start seeing the boy who used to put gum in your hair and constantly mock you? What did he expect? For you to just forgive him, to let him take you out, even marry him? You had heard from Betsy Lawrence that Pete Corners had seen Sukuna looking at rings in the jewelry store. She had said while smacking her chewing gum. Grinning at you like you should be elated. You hadn’t reacted. You knew anything you said or did would be all around town by the next morning. And he would know.
You pulled your coat around you and left the post office. While you were glad Sukuna had left you alone, a ride in his automobile would have been nice. After all, it was early December.
The attack happens on Sunday, the war starts on Monday, and two days later it is not just Japan but the entire Axis powers. Just about every fellow old enough and able has already signed up. You're one of the first to hear that Sukuna has signed up. Your mother mentions that Mr. Itadori had mentioned that Sukuna had gone to register that morning when she dropped off some cookies. “Such a good boy,” she says, eyeing you. You keep stirring the green beans.
“Mr. Itadori wants you to come to dinner at their home tomorrow night” she says. You lift your head in surprise. Sukuna was going to the city tomorrow, you knew that because of Betsy Lawrence. And Betsy was never wrong.
“Alright,” you say quietly. Mr. Itadori was a kind man. His health was bad so everyone in the neighborhood tried to do the small things he asked for. What was one dinner? Besides, Sukuna wouldn’t be there.
The dinner was quiet. Jin was interesting and kind, but he looked so much like his twin, that you had a hard time looking at him head on. But Mr. Itadori kept the conversation going, talking about how the war would change the prices of things, how he suspected Mr. Jones of taking the neighborhood stray cat in, how he Mrs. Kilmeny wouldn’t stop pestering him to join her bridge group. You had to suppress a smile at that. Everyone knew how Mrs. Kilmeny was after Mr. Itadori after her husband had passed away two years ago.
Mr. Itadori sat back in his chair, eyeing you. “Jin you can go call Kaori, if you want to.”
“Really, pops!” Jin set up, his chair scraping against the floor. He was gone from the room before his dad could get another word out.
You sat in silence. Your hands folded in your lap. Mr. Itadori looked at you hard, his brows furrowed.
“I know my boy is rough around the edges,” he says. Your throat goes dry and you wish you were anywhere but here. He sighs. “I never let him have what he wanted, he was so stubborn, it was always a fight.” You blink, squeezing your shoulders together.
“It made him better, tougher. Jin didn’t get the same, but Jin was built different than Sukuna,” he pauses, but he keeps his eyes on you. You’re reminded of Sukuna and his predator eyes. “I know he’s been after you these past few years and I understand why you wouldn’t be interested, you’re a soft thing. But he’ll be shipping out in a few weeks.”
You wish you were home. You wish you hadn’t agreed to come to dinner. You wish you had never known the Itadori’s. You wish Sukuna had kept sticking gum in your hair, rather than trying to clumsily claim you.
“Just one date. Let him take you out, the fellow will be in Paris Island in a few weeks or so.”
Why is he doing this to you?
“Just one,” he says. “Give him a memory to take with him to his training and to the war.”
“Yes, sir,” you say. If you were stronger, smarter, you would have said no. But you had been trained to obey, to submit to authority. Maybe if you had known, but how could you have known?
“Who knows," he says, “you may even start to like the bastard."
You see Sukuna the next day as you finish your shift at the soda fountain. He looks at you, his face looks harder somehow. Like he’s grown up, like he’s stopped being a boy.
“Hi Sukuna,” you say quietly.
He looks surprised that you talked to him without his prompting. But then his face settles into a mask of smug confidence. He says your name like it’s a prayer to some ancient goddess. “What have you been doing?” Sukuna asks you like he isn’t used to asking you questions. And he isn’t, you can’t remember a time when he ever asked you your feelings on anything.
You give him a small smile. “I’ve been busy getting ready for the holidays. How about you, Sukuna? What have you been doing?”
He shrugs his massive shoulders back. “Signed up for the Marines. I’m going to basic training in two weeks.”
“Oh.” What are you supposed to say? Usually you would sit in silence while he would brag about himself.
Sukuna rubs the back of his neck. He says your name again, low almost sweetly. “Would you like to go out for milkshakes tonight?” He asks.
“I’d like that,” you say, blinking as you lie.
His pupils widened. Then a slow smile pulls his lips back. You’re reminded of a dog with a dead animal in its jowls. He steps closer, you freeze. Sukuna takes your chin in his fingers. His eyes are the color of dried blood, you notice.
“I knew you -” he cuts himself off, glaring at someone over your shoulder. You hear your Boss - Gladys making a little cough.
You look at him, really look at him. You wish he was dead, dead in the war. As soon as the thought crosses your mind, you internally wince like you touched a hot coal. How could you think such an awful thing? Even about Sukuna.
The date goes relatively smoothly. He picks you up in his automobile because the milkshake place is a town over. The ride is silent as you pick at a loose string in your sweater and he keeps his eyes on the road. But once you reach the ice cream parlor, still open in the dead of winter, he starts talking. He tells you about how Jin is signing up for the Navy, how Jin is planning to propose to Kaori. He pauses then and looks you over. He asks you what you think about marriage. You tell him what you think, you’d like a few years. He nods at that, like a rich man doing inventory over the things he owned.
When he takes you home, he kisses your cheek, all slow, his mouth lingers on your cheek. The heat of his lips sears your cheek. But you do nothing.
The next time you see Sukuna, he’s shipping out for basic training. You stand on a dusty platform with the rest of the residents of your town. You feel him before you see him. Sukuna Itadori looms over you, then his mouth is on yours. He dips you back in a kiss, and then he is gone.
Summary: What began was sleep paralysis. At least, that's what everyone keeps telling you.
Warnings: Non-con somnophilia, side character's death, VERY graphic violence, blood and gore, body horrors, stalking, face punching (reader's nose got broken), severe mental health distress, rough kissing, implied non-con oral at the end, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.
Author's Notes: I just thought that being a normal person in JJK must be hell.
You can't breathe.
Something is pressing down on you, and fingers comb through your hair. You attempt to scream, but your body feels entirely unresponsive.
Then—
your alarm goes off.
You’re running late for work again today, all because of those damn keys. You remembered tearing your apartment apart looking for it, even though the place wasn't even big enough to lose things in. It's one miserable little room with a kitchenette awkwardly bolted onto the side. You can stand in the middle and almost touch everything you own.
After barely three hours of broken sleep, you had finally flung open the refrigerator in desperation. And there it was: sitting right on the wire rack, casually next to the carton of milk.
You still didn't remember putting it there.
Now, as you stand behind the counter, you tie your apron while suppressing a yawn so violent it makes your eyes water. You mentally run through the checklist of everything you absolutely despise about that late-night retail job. From the blinding fluorescent lights that give you a constant headache, to the mind-numbing repetition of scanning barcodes, and the artificial, customer-service smile you have to plaster on your face for hours on end.
But worst of all are the late-night regulars.
"Geez, rough night?"
You don't even have to look up to know who it is. Sayama, Honda, and Nishimura. The local trio of high school punks who think they own the block. They’re leaning heavily against the front counter, blocking the register.
Nishimura purposely kicks a display of potato chips, sending a few bags sliding across the linoleum. "Man, you look like absolute trash today."
"Finding everything okay?" you muttered, your voice flat.
"Drop the attitude and just scan the drinks. We’ve got places to be." Sayama scoffed, slamming a handful of coins and three oversized cans of high-caffeine energy drinks onto the counter.
Fuck these kids. Honestly, fuck them.
You hope they fail their driver's tests six times in a row. Fuck them for making your already miserable shifts a living hell just because they have nothing better to do with their pathetic lives.
You don't say it, obviously. You want to keep your shitty job. Instead, you drag your feet behind the counter and mechanically scan the can.
They complain about the price (as always), shove each other into the candy display, and make a show of snatching their plastic bags before finally swaggering back out into the night. Blessed, beautiful silence. Through the massive glass storefront window, you watch them walk away, silently cursing them to hell and back.
"God, they are so repulsive," a hushed voice whispers beside you.
It’s your coworker. She’s sitting on a plastic crate near the back register, her head buried in her hands, looking just as dead to the world as you feel.
"Tell me about it," you say, leaning heavily against your register as a wave of pure misery washes over you. "If I have to deal with them one more time tonight, I'm going to lose it."
Your coworker glances outside through the glass. "They're gonna get themselves killed someday."
"...Yeah." You don't even look up.
Gosh, your skin feels too tight from exhaustion. Your thoughts keep slipping sideways, disappearing halfway through sentences before you can catch them again.
Maybe you should actually see a doctor. Maybe.
For just a second, you catch movement reflected in the storefront glass. Someone standing directly behind you.
As you whirl around, the aisle is empty.
_
The train home was packed with salarymen and students, all crammed together.
You had clocked out of your eight-hour shift at 5:00 AM, but your brain had been so completely fried that you hadn’t even made it to the station. Instead, you had stumbled into a cubicle at a 24-hour manga cafe near the store and collapsed. You had slept like a corpse through the entire day, waking up only when the booth's automated timer buzzed in the evening.
Now, it was night again. As the train rattles past a major intersection downtown, the sharp wail of multiple police sirens echoes through the glass. Not a single salaryman looks up from their phone, nor the high school girl across the aisle watches dance videos with the volume leaking through her cheap earbuds. Red emergency lights flash through the carriage windows, washing over rows of their expressionless faces.
Six months ago, you had been one of them. You’d had the crisp suits, the steady desk job, the predictable salary, and a life that didn’t involve scrubbing dried nacho cheese off a linoleum floor at three in the morning. But one bloodless email from HR was all it took to strip your title and drop you straight into the gutter of the gig economy. Now, you were a twenty-something retail casualty and begging teenager punks not to kick the potato chip displays just so you could pay rent on a room the size of a closet.
Regardless, you just pray that whatever chaos is happening downtown stays downtown. The last thing you need is another train delay.
You stare out the window as the outskirts smear of sodium-vapor orange and neon red, and your reflection stares back at you from the darkened window.
Wow, you actually look like crap.
You haven't slept properly in weeks. Every morning, your body aches like somebody spent the night using you as a punching bag.
Every day you tell yourself you'll go to bed early.
Every night you wake up unable to breathe as something pinning you under.
The advice people give is always so wonderfully useless: get more rest, eat better, keep a journal, reach out to friends.
You could brush off a misplaced coffee cup or a forgotten phone location. But how do you explain locking the front door at night only to wake up and find it standing open? Or checking the gas three times before leaving, yet returning to the lingering scent of something scorched? You leave your phone on the bedside table and find it hours later on the bathroom tile, the screen shattered and the voice memo app recording.
So no—you’re not losing it.
The train finally screeches to a stop, its doors hiss open, and you step out into the night.
You walk home in an utter daze, the city lights bleeding together above your head. By the time you finally drag your exhausted self across the apartment threshold, it’s just after 6:30 p.m.
You don’t even touch the light switch. That lovely little habit started weeks ago. At first, it was just because you couldn't stand the awful flickering. But now, it’s more about control—a petty mind game you play with your own apartment. If you don't turn the lights on, whatever is in here can't turn them off. You win.
You slam the door behind you, aggressively throwing both bolts into place, and let your jacket crumple into a sad heap on the floor. But as you move toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water, you freeze.
There’s a narrow, jagged line of light cutting across the floorboards from beneath the bathroom door.
"That's strange."
You live alone, and you are meticulous about the switches—obsessively so. You remember clicking that specific light twice this morning when it didn’t respond the first time. You know you turned it off. You know it.
Slowly, you cross the floorboards in dead silence, stopping just short of the door. The light beneath the crack continues to blink in a jagged, irregular rhythm. Morse code, maybe, if you squinted.
You reach out and place your palm against the knob. The metal is freezing, which has absolutely no business being in a summer apartment.
You twist the knob and push the door open.
Your eyes sweep over the white tile, the sink, the mirror. The room is empty (of course it is), and you let out a shaky breath you didn't realize you were holding. It’s just the landlord’s trashy wiring. You're fine.
You step inside and reach toward the wall switch to reset the bulb. Your fingers are barely a millimeter away from brushing the plastic—
The light abruptly snaps off.
Your fingers hang suspended in the void, paralyzed in that freezing, sightless space where the switch should be. You stand perfectly still, every muscle locked tight as you hold your breath, straining your ears against the heavy, suffocating silence of the room. You can feel the air growing colder around you, crowding into the small space. You are terrified that if you move your hand even a fraction of an inch, your fingers will brush against something you cannot see.
Then, the silence is shattered.
Your phone screams against your pocket.
Your heart violently hammers against your ribs as you fumble for the device, and your hands shake so badly you almost drop it. The caller ID reads your coworker from the store.
You swipe to answer, the light of the phone casting ghoulish, upward shadows across your face.
A moment’s pause, then her voice cuts through the line, accompanied by the familiar, high-pitched beep of a convenience store scanner in the background. "Hey! Thank god you answered. Boss is losing his mind trying to call everyone. He wants to know if you can pull a double tomorrow."
You rub your temple, looking into the pitch-black darkness of your apartment. "Tell him no. I can barely keep my eyes open."
She lets out a dry laugh. "Honestly, though, it’s probably a good thing you’re not here tonight. The vibe on the street today is completely rancid. I wish I could leave right now."
"What do you mean?"
"You know those three high school punks? The ones who always hang outside the doors at midnight and mess up the displays? Sayama and his little crew?"
"They finally get arrested?" You immediately groan.
"I wish." She lowers her voice, the sound of her phone rustling as if she’s leaning over the counter. "The police have been driving past the storefront all evening. Apparently, they went missing earlier today. Someone said they found them downtown at the cinema, but..."
She trails off, a heavy, uneasy hesitation stretching across the line.
"But what?" you ask, your fingers tightening around the edge of your phone.
"I don't know, it’s probably just weird internet rumors," her voice dropping into a hushed whisper. "But a guy from the late-night delivery route just came in to drop off the bento boxes. He said he saw the ambulances pull up to the theater, and when they brought the stretchers out... the body bags didn't look right. He said they looked lumpy. Like whatever was inside them didn't have normal human shapes anymore."
A chill that has nothing to do with your apartment's air settles in your bones. You stare at the bathroom door in the dark, neither of you speaks.
Finally she forces a laugh.
"It's probably bullshit."
"Yeah."
But neither of you sounds convinced. You exchange a few more words—work gossip, half-hearted jokes—and hang up. You stand still for a beat, phone in hand, as the silence returns. You’re far too exhausted to feel bad about missing work. You’ve already given enough of yourself.
That night, sleep didn't come easy. It never did anymore.
You lay rigidly on your side, buried beneath a blanket too thin to block out the unnatural drop in temperature. Your eyes are locked onto the rusted blades of the ceiling fan that’s been broken since winter. The hallway light leaks in from under the door that you had left it on for comfort, though it doesn’t help.
Sayama. Honda. Nishimura. Dead. Gone forever.
A knotting guilt tightens in your gut, making you feel physically ill. Just a few hours ago, you were bitterly cursing them. You wanted them gone. You wanted them to suffer. But you meant a cop catching them, or a school suspension—not this.
It’s a repulsive feeling, realizing you got your wish in the most horrific way possible. They were just stupid kids trying to act tough, and now they are never going to walk through those convenience store doors again. They are never going to grow up. The petty anger you felt this afternoon suddenly feels incredibly small, hollow, and shameful.
You try to swallow the bitter taste in your mouth, desperate to force the thoughts out of your head. But every time you try to close your eyes and forget, the guilt is instantly replaced by a strange dread. You feel a pressure sink into the mattress right beside you, making the springs groan.
Creaaaak.
You tell yourself it's the wood closet settling. The wood is just old. You refuse to turn your head. Because if you don’t look at it, it isn’t real. If you don't look, there's nothing there.
Another sound—a soft tap, like a fingernail against the wall. Followed by a soft, rhythmic rustle, an unmistakable sound of cloth brushing against cloth.
Then, a cold, thread-like sensation coiled around the back of your scalp.
Your breath hitches in your throat. It isn’t a violent yank, but a curious pull—as if someone is delicately threading their fingers through the strands just to see if you’ll react.
You bolted upright, an animalistic gasp tearing from your throat as your hand frantically slapped the bedside lamp. The sudden, blinding bulb explodes into the dark, stinging your eyes and forcing a grimace onto your face.
There is nothing there.
Of course there’s always nothing.
God, you’re losing it, you thought, pressing your ice-cold palms against your face. Your breath came in short, trembling hitches. It’s the exhaustion, the toll of weeks without real sleep. A sleep-deprived brain is a liar; it manifests ghosts out of thin air just because it's tired. People even do weird shit when they do. This is entirely normal.
You lie back down.
Eventually, pure exhaustion drags you under.
But you don’t get to rest. You wake up suddenly, and your first thought is that you are dying.
An invisible force is crushing you down; you can’t see it, but the pressure is clearly flesh and bone, gripping you down. One on your shoulder. One on your ribs. One just below your throat. You are completely frozen, unable to even twitch a finger. You even try to scream, but your vocal cords are locked.
The hallway light was still burning beneath the door, but it had turned a sickly, dim grey, as if the darkness in your bedroom was suffocating.
Then a hand—you swear it’s a hand—gently brushed your cheek. You can’t look down, but your eyes dart frantically in their sockets, rolling back in sheer terror as a localized chill brushes against your cheek. A whimper catches in your throat as the freezing chill… caresses you. Each finger traces the line of your jaw, the pads of the thumbs rough and scraping against your skin, before sliding down to outline your lips. The touch was horribly, monstrously affectionate.
There is no one to see, yet you are certain of their proximity.
The blanket is stripped away, or perhaps it just feels like it’s gone, leaving nothing but your thin clothes between your skin and this weight. You want to scream, but you can only lie there like a prisoner trapped inside the useless meat of your own body.
The fingers at your throat tilt your head back, exposing the fragile line of your neck. The edges of your vision begin to blur, but you are horribly awake for what comes next.
The weight shifts, sliding further up the bed, settling directly between your thighs.
Your stomach violently churns as the distinct, terrifying pressure of a solid chest flattens against yours, pinning you completely beneath it. Then, the freezing chill of its breath leaves your ear, trailing slowly down the side of your face.
You can’t turn away. You can only watch the ceiling in blind horror as those wet, ragged exhales press against your skin, moving down to the hollow of your throat. Its fingers slide beneath the collar of your shirt, clearly taking its time with you, taking pleasure in your helplessness.
Right against the skin of your neck, its lips curve into a smile. You hear a soft chuckle vibrate against your skin, followed by the agonizingly slow drag of its tongue against your pulse point.
"Please, no," tears finally spilling over your temples as you feel your pants being tugs down.
You scream behind your teeth until your throat burns, pouring every ounce of your consciousness into making your legs move, making your hips twist away, making anything break the paralysis.
But it pries you apart anyway—wriggling inside you in a brutish shove, it sheathes itself deeply in curiosity to see how much you could fit, eagerly pumping inside you before pulling back out—then repeating the motion. Instantly, to its pleasure, your legs fall weak as something hits that soft spot of you.
You try to hold onto the last bit of air in your lungs, but it’s already being stolen from you, drawn straight out of your open mouth as its weight presses down to take everything else.
_
You wake up with a gasp, the shrill, violent beep of your alarm carving straight through your skull. You lie motionless at first, your entire body mapped out in a deep, throbbing ache.
Then, a sharp sting radiates from your skin.
You bolt upright, eyes dropping to your arms, and your heart stops.
There are two perfect, narrow rings of red wrap around the wrists.
Panic sent you stumbling out of bed. Your knees shook so violently that you almost hit the floor before you managed to reach the bathroom mirror. With trembling hands, you yanked back the collar of your shirt.
Your throat tells the same story—thin, red lines across your neck, perfect topography of human fingers. You stand paralyzed, can do nothing but stare at your own throat, frozen in the silence of the room.
Your mind flips through questions. Did you do this to yourself? Are you finally cracking? Is this some kind of sick, psychological break?
It’s two hours before your next overnight shift, so you scramble across the room to your laptop, grabbing the small USB camera you mounted last week—after the first time you swore you saw someone standing at the foot of your bed.
You open the recording, dragging the cursor through the hours of grainy footage. Fast forward to there you were: restless, then still, then lost to sleep.
At 3:12 a.m., the version of you on the screen suddenly seized.
You rewind it frame by frame, but there’s no one else in the footage.
Just you, suffering in invisible hands
You scoured the timestamps, but nothing was cut.
You spend the next hour tearing the apartment apart—opening every closet, checking under the bed, scanning for crawlspace vents, loose panels, anything. You even think about going to the police, but what would you even say?
Eventually, the sun finally dips behind the horizon, bleeding a dirty orange across your apartment walls before choking out completely. And strangely, as night rolls in, nothing happens.
Outside, the Kanagawa night hums with the rattle of vending machines and the occasional screech of a distant braking train. You step through the glass automatic doors of the convenience store, immediately buried under the aggressive, artificial hum of the fluorescent lights.
You lean behind the counter. Under your thick sleeves, the bruised rings around your wrists throb. You applied layer after layer of heavy concealer to your neck before leaving the apartment, but it does nothing to hide the marks.
Your coworker from yesterday sits on a plastic crate near the back register. She’s mindlessly wiping down the hot-food display case for the fourth time. watching the minutes bleed away. Earlier, you had watched her aggressively slam the chip displays into place, muttering under her breath about karma, but now she had settled into an unnerving calm.
"Hurry up."
You flinch.
Standing across from you is a salaryman, his tie loosened and crooked, reeking of stale beer and sour sweat. He glares at you through bloodshot eyes, gesturing at the basket filled with cheap canned highballs and instant ramen.
He barks, "I've been standing here for a minute. Do your damn job."
You scramble to reach for the barcode scanner.
"That will be 1,420 yen," you say, forcing your voice into a flat, practiced customer-service drone.
The man grunts, tossing a crumpled three-thousand-yen pack onto the counter, a few coins rolling uselessly onto the floor. "Stupid kids," he mutters under his breath, leaning over the counter so close you can smell the alcohol on his breath. "Can't even smile."
You look up, your gaze locking onto his face. Under the glare of the fluorescent lights, his features suddenly began to blur, melting together into a featureless smudge of sour skin and a crooked tie. The constant, high-frequency hum of the light fixture above you suddenly swelled, filling your ears until it sounded like a buzzing wall of static.
Your brain just... quit. You drifted into a micro-sleep while standing completely upright, staring blankly at his collar.
"Hey! My change!" the man snaps, slamming his palm against the counter.
You blink, you didn’t notice your thumb slide off the register key. With a numb hand, you hand him his bills. He snatches them away, grabs his plastic bag, and shoves his way back out into the night, the glass doors hissing shut behind him.
Your eyes drift toward the massive glass storefront window. You stare out at the empty, dark sidewalk, half-hoping to see three obnoxious shadows swaggering up to the automatic doors.
You know they aren't coming. They are never coming back. It’s not like you actually miss them—you definitely don't want to be harassed while trying to restock the beverage coolers, and you don't want them knocking over the chip displays just to be dicks. But their empty spot on the pavement still leaves a bitter, metallic taste in your mouth.
Gosh, even when they’re dead and gone, they are still managing to ruin your night.
For the next few hours, you do whatever mindless tasks you can find to keep your hands busy. You haven't slept properly in weeks, and your thoughts feel slow, like somebody replaced your brain with cold oatmeal. No wonder why nobody wants to work this hour, even with a +25% late-night premium. Tonight, it’s just you and her.
Finally, the clock above the register clicks over to 5:00 a.m.
The morning manager pushes through the automatic doors, bringing in the sharp, crisp scent of the early morning air. You watch your coworker head toward the tiny breakroom in the back to grab her jacket.
She smiles at you, but it’s a fragile, watery expression. For a split second, the fluorescent light catches her neck.
"You okay?" you ask, you don’t know why you did.
"Ah, I feel so light," she says, her eyes wide and unnervingly bright. "I mean, with those awful kids finally gone... it's like the whole street breathes easier, you know? I feel like I finally survived. I even bought those tickets for the festival on Saturday, my sister's been dying to go."
Then, she says, "Hey, can you do me a favor?"
"No, sorry, I just want to get the hell out of here," you say, your voice tighter than you mean it to be.
But she violently shakes her head, her hand reaching out and clamping onto your forearm. Her grip tightens until her fingernails dig straight into the fresh bruises hidden beneath your sleeve. A jolt of white-hot pain shoots up your arm, but you force your jaw shut, refusing to let her see you flinch.
"Please. Can you just… wait for me until the end of the shift? I’m done in a few hours. Most of the staff called out today, and after what… happened, I’m too scared to go home by myself."
You look at her, seeing the genuine unease in her eyes. So you give a slow, reluctant nod. "Fine. We’ll leave together."
"Thank you," she breathes, visibly relieved.
You finish logging off your register, your fingers moving mechanically over the touch screen. As you reach down to grab your backpack from the bottom shelf, you instinctively pat your coat pocket.
"Damn it," you mutter, rubbing your bloodshot eyes. "I left my apartment keys in my locker. I must have dropped them when I was changing earlier."
She looks up. "Right now? Can’t it wait?"
"I’m locked out if I don't get them. And there is no way I'm staying here. Go wait by the main entrance—it’s right under the security camera and the streetlights are bright out there. I’ll meet you at the glass doors."
"You want me to go outside alone?" she nervously touches her hair clip.
"I’ll meet you in two minutes. I promise," you reassure her. "I’ll be faster if I just run back alone."
She gives a shaky, reluctant nod and takes a step toward the exit.
As she nears the front, the motion sensor on the door triggers, sliding open. But she hasn't even reached the mat yet—it’s as if an invisible weight had just walked straight through her to get out of the building. She doesn't even notice.
When you finally sprint back out to the main lobby, you expect to see her pacing near the glass doors, checking her phone.
The storefront is completely empty.
The glass automatic doors are shut tight, reflecting nothing but your own pale, haggard face. Outside, the streetlamp flickers, casting long shadows across the empty sidewalk.
"Hey!" you call out, your voice bouncing uselessly off the plastic shelves.
You pull out your phone, your fingers shaking as you dial her number. It drops immediately to a busy signal.
So you burst through the sliding doors. Logically, she couldn't have gone far—the station is only a three-minute walk, and if she’d seen something that scared her, she would have sprinted for the streetlights. You tell yourself she just got anxious and started the walk early, hoping you’d catch up.
As you hit the pavement, a cold realization sinks in. You know how this looks. You’ve watched enough horror movies to know that running into the dark alone is how the body count starts. It’s the ultimate cliché ever, yet here you are.
You shout her name, but there’s no response.
The street is unnervingly vacant. The vending machines hum with a mechanical buzz that sounds like low-frequency growling. Then, right in the middle of the faded white stripes of the crosswalk, something catches the light.
It's her tennis shoe.
You stop a foot away from it. The toe of the shoe is pointing directly toward a gap between two towering concrete office buildings.
Your eyes strain against the dark of the alley. Every physical instinct you have locks your joints, anchoring your feet to the spot. You don't take a step toward the dark. Instead, you slowly back away, your eyes never leaving the mouth of the alley.
You turn on your heel, your rubber-soled shoes skidding violently on the wet pavement as you sprint in the opposite direction. The blue neon sign of the police box is just a block away.
Ten yards.
Five yards. You just need to reach it. You just need—
Crack.
The world explodes in a flash of white and a sickening crack.
A fist connects squarely with the bridge of your nose. The impact sends you reeling backward, your head snapping back as your knees buckle.
Static fills your vision, followed quickly by the rush of hot, metallic blood pouring from your nostrils, coating your lips and chin. You scramble for purchase on the wet asphalt, gasping through the copper tang in your mouth.
"Ah, sorry about the nose."
Wiping at your eyes, you find yourself staring at a man in his early twenties. He’s surprisingly lithe, not monstrous in stature, with long, grayish-blue hair tied into three distinct strands. Stitches bridge the gaps in his skin, snaking over his features like a Frankenstein monster.
Dread slides down your spine, momentarily numbing the agony in your face. You flinch violently as his hand hovers just centimeters from your shattered nose.
"It was the only way to get you to see me," he admits, watching the blood stream past your lips with wide-eyed curiosity. "You humans are so fragile. If I’d used my Cursed Technique on you instead of just punching you, you would’ve ended up exactly like those three little punks from the cinema."
Your brain stalls, your hand trembling as you cup your shattered nose. "What... what are you talking about?" you wheeze. "You… you did that to them?"
"Oh, those kids? They annoyed me," he giggles, waving a hand dismissively.
"You’re sick," you spit, the words tasting like copper and bile. Your hand grips the asphalt, desperately looking for anything to use as a weapon. "You’re fucking insane."
"Hey, don't be mean!" he tsk-tsks, the sound sharp in the quiet street.
"I’ve been having the absolute best time messing with you lately, you know? It was hilarious at first… but playing with a blind man is such a chore." He lets out a dramatic sigh, checking his nails. "Humans are amazing. You can spend weeks touching one, breathing beside one, lying in bed with one… and they'll convince themselves they're just tired.'" He frowns, tossing his head back dramatically "It was frustrating—having to keep myself suppressed just to leave those bruises without accidentally popping your heart like a grape. But now that we can finally see each other…"
He leans in, and you flinch, but there’s nowhere to go. "Don't you think it's much more exciting this way?"
"Shut up," you snap, a sudden surge of raw adrenaline forcing the words out of your throat. You swallow down the metallic taste of blood as you realize what’s missing. "Where is she? Where’s my coworker? What did you do to her?!"
"Ah, her?" He taps his chin thoughtfully. "She was in the way."
He gestures toward the yawning black mouth of the alleyway, his smile stretching until the stitches on his cheeks pull white and taut.
"As for where she is now... well, if you’re lucky, you might still recognize her by the time I'm finished with you both."
He rises back up to his full height, his long, grayish-blue hair casting jagged, shifting shadows across the pavement under the flickering streetlamp. You struggle to push yourself up, your breath catching in your chest, but he just looks down at you with a look of mock pity.
"Hey, don’t blame yourself, okay? It’s really not your fault." He coos, his voice dripping with playful affection. "Even if I hadn’t used her to reel you out here tonight, I probably would've turned her into a little fleshy footstool to keep in your apartment anyway."
Your fury is a cold, sharp thing, but before you can even lunge, his hand catches you by the throat, the impact slamming your head back against the pavement with a sickening thud.
The world tilts. He pins you down with an effortless, crushing strength, his knees digging into your shoulders. You try to scream, but your eyes dart to the empty, silent street. There isn’t a soul in sight.
Suddenly the realization locked your joints solid.
The door. The automatic glass doors at the store had slid open for him, but your coworker hadn’t seen a thing. You hadn't even been able to see him until he literally broke your nose to force your brain to register his existence. If someone walked by, they would only see a bloodied, sleep-deprived retail worker having a psychotic break in the middle of the street.
There was no help coming. No one could see him but you.
Swallowing down the hot copper tang of your own blood, your gripping hands slowly flattening against the cold asphalt as the last of your fight drains out of you.
"Look at you, you're quick to realize," Mahito blinked, his mismatched eyes widening in absolute delight before he burst into a chuckle. "That's so smart. I was worried you’d just lay there and scream."
"What..." you wheeze, blood bubbling at the corner of your mouth. "What the hell are you? Why me?"
"What am I?" He hums, a sound of genuine delight, as if you’ve finally asked the right question. "I’m a Cursed Spirit—human hatred made me, you know? Think of me as all the ugly, rotten misery you swallow down during those awful late-night shifts, just given flesh."
"As for why you?" he tilts his head. "You just smelled nice. Does there have to be a reason?"
You stare at him, dumbfounded. Is he serious?
He runs a thumb over your lower lip, wiping away a smear of blood with a look of genuine affection. "...But I have to admit. I’ve been growing quite fond of you lately."
Your skin crawls so violently, you feel like you’re going to vomit. The cold texture of his skin against your mouth is wrong. It didn't feel like a person. It feels like a plastic mannequin mimicking a waterlogged corpse.
"Get away from me," you choke out. You try to jerk your head away, but your skull is already pinned hard against the concrete. There is nowhere left to retreat.
"Why?" Mahito hums, leaning in so close that the cold void of his breath freezes the blood on your lips. "Don't be so cold. I've touched you for weeks already. Why are you acting embarrassed now?"
Before you can even draw breath to scream, his hand clamps behind your neck, his fingers locking into your hair with a crushing grip. He wrenches your face up and forces his mouth onto yours.
He tastes like copper, stale rain, and the sickening, sweet scent of rot. He kisses you brutally, all teeth and tongue, and the sheer pressure of his mouth completely swallows any scream you try to choke out.
A blinding surge of animalistic fury erupts through your terror.
Your arms are pinned, but your right hand is free, pressed flat against the filthy asphalt. Your fingers curl, scraping against the grime, searching for leverage. With every ounce of adrenaline left in your failing body, you drive your hand upward.
You jam your index and middle fingers directly into his left eye socket.
The sensation is sickeningly—the resistance of the eyelid giving way, the sudden pop of the ocular membrane, and then your knuckles sinking deep into the wet, gelatinous warmth behind his cheekbone. You didn't pull back—you kept driving them in until you felt your fingertips hit the hard resistance of the bone right behind his facial stitches.
He breaks the kiss instantly. He merely lets out a sharp exhale and reels back, caught off guard more by your audacity than the pain, but the blow is enough to free you.
You don’t stay to watch him recover. Rejecting every horror movie trope, you don't turn toward the alley; instead, you sprint toward the neon blue glow of the police box. No matter what kind of nightmare he is, surely he wouldn’t chase after you while half-blinded.
Right?
You are only a dozen feet from the blue light.
Suddenly, something cold and leathery coils around your ankle. Then, you are violently uprooted. You slam face-first into the pavement, the impact jarring your teeth, and before you can even scramble for a handhold, you are being dragged.
You twist your head back, and the sight is a physical blow to your sanity.
Mahito hasn't moved from his spot under the streetlamp, but his arm has. It has stretched across the asphalt, elongating into a fleshy cord ten feet long. The skin is pale and taut, the stitches pulling apart to accommodate the unnatural length. His hand, now massive and distorted, is clamped like a vise around your leg.
"Going so soon?" he calls out, his voice still playful despite the dark fluid staining his face. "We were just getting to the good part!"
He yanks his arm back with a snap of his wrist. You are hauled across the street like a ragdoll, your fingernails clawing uselessly at the asphalt as you are pulled away from the safety of the police box and toward the yawning mouth of the unlit alley.
The blue light of the station fades into the distance, replaced by the scent of wet earth.
"Wow, I really have to hand it to you."
A heavy heel slams into the base of your spine with such sudden force that your entire nervous system misfires, sending a white-hot jolt of static through your brain. You’re driven face-first into the filth of the alley floor, the copper taste of blood now mixed with the grime of the city.
Mahito crouches over you, he lifts his foot, and yanks you up by the collar and flings you into a pile of rusted crates. Your side hits a metal edge with a sickening crack—broken ribs, definitely—but the pain feels distant, muffled by the sheer impossibility of what you’re seeing.
"I clearly underestimated that streak of recklessness you’ve got. It’s so fascinating—the way humans resort to such crude, messy violence when they're cornered. I’m almost touched that you’d fight that hard just to leave our date early."
You struggle to lift your head, one of his eyes squeezed shut, while dark, viscous blood trickles down his stitched cheek. He slowly raises a hand, tracing the wound with a single, curious finger. He examines the gore on his fingertip with the wide-eyed wonder of a child, before his eyelid flutters and the socket knits itself back together.
"That actually stung a bit," he muses, his voice dripping with playful admiration.
Before you can even gasp for air through your shattered ribs, a mass of tissue is thrown onto the pavement before your eyes
It is a head, but the skull has been elongated and twisted into a jagged, fleshy spiral, the jaw fused open in a permanent shriek of agony. You wouldn’t have recognized the remains as human, let alone as your coworker, if not for the small, glinting hair clip still clinging to a patch of matted hair—the same clip your coworker had nervously touched just hours ago in the store.
"I should really thank her," Mahito says. "She kept calling your name right until the moment I touched her soul, she must’ve hoped that you’d come back with those keys."
You can’t move, your mind fracturing under the sight of the hair clip.
"You still don’t get it yet, have you?"
Mahito steps into the faint light. The dark fluid you had forced from his eye socket is entirely gone; the skin is perfectly smooth over his stitches, his mismatched eyes wide and manic.
"It’s simple, really," he chirps the words with a look of childlike innocence. "I just touched her soul and gave it a better shape. Don't you agree she looks much more interesting this way?"
You stare at her head. The shock is so absolute that you can’t even scream; you just lie there in the dirt, trapped between the man who has spent weeks haunting your bed and the unrecognizable remains of your colleague.
This isn't real. This is a sleep deprivation psychosis. It has to be.
Your eyes finally move to the creature crouching over you. You see the reflection of your own mangled face in his heterochromatic eyes as you scramble to sit upright. If he did that to your coworker in a matter of minutes, what has he been doing to you every night while you slept?
"What..." Your voice is a thick, wet rasp, catching on the copper fluid pooling at the back of your throat. You swallow hard, clearing your airway just enough to speak. "What are you going to do to me?"
"Oh, I haven't decided yet." He sighs.
His hand slides from your jaw to your neck, his fingers trailing over the bruises he left there with a reverence that makes your skin crawl.
"But I think I’ll keep you for a while." He leans down until his lips are brushing against the shell of your ear. "I like you so much."
He strokes your hair back from your bloody forehead. "And I’m so, so glad you’re finally awake for this. I wanted you to be conscious of it all."
A sudden, volatile spark of fury ignites through your terror.
It’s the exact same blinding rage you felt during those miserable night shifts—the urge to violently snap at every demanding customer, every entitled punk, and every trashy piece of your broken life. If your pathetic life is ending on the wet asphalt tonight, you refuse to make it easy for him.
You draw the hot, coppery pool of blood and saliva into your throat and spit the gore directly into his mismatched eyes.
"Oh?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.
He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he stays perfectly still, the blood trickling down his cheek like a macabre tear. He slowly reaches up, swiping a finger through the mess on his eyelid, then licks it clean with a slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue.
You can’t help but twist your face into a grimace. "God, you are fucking disgusting."
"They usually just beg, you know? He giggles, his eyes widening in pure, manic wonder. "But look at you. Your soul is absolutely filthy with terror right now, you know exactly what I am, and you are still trying to snap your teeth? I think I’m actually falling for you."
Before you can even process the thought, his hand shoots forward. His fingers entangle violently in your hair, gripping your scalp effortlessly. With a sharp snap of his wrist, he yanks you upward.
A strangled shriek is torn from your throat as your body is forced off the asphalt. Your knees slam heavily onto the filth of the alley floor, the impact sending a jarring shockwave straight up to your shattered ribs. He pins you there, forcing you to kneel before him, your head tilted back so far that the skin over your bruised windpipe pulls white and taut.
"Oh, and my name is Mahito," Mahito say, finally recalling what he had been forgetting. And your eyes widen in horror as at the sight that he’s hard. "I want to hear you moan that at least once, okay?"
You try to spit again, to curse him, to do anything to break his hold, but your body is finally reaching its absolute limit.
The white-hot agony in your chest begins to dull, morphing into a numbness that spreads down your limbs. The edges of your vision are fraying, sparking with violent bursts of static before bleeding into a thick, pulsing black vignette. The neon blue glow of the police box down the street feels miles away now, a dying star in a universe that has completely forgotten you.
You can feel the solid weight of his knees anchoring you down, the tight grip of his fingers in your hair, angle up towards him while the other retrieves his solid cock and pulls it through the gap provided.
Tags: Porn With Plot, Cunnilingus, Attempted Oviposition, Oviposition, Male Lactation, Dry Humping, Blow Jobs, Creampie, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Summary: You're at a road block in life where an arranged marriage proposal to a loveless marriage is your only option left. That is, until your offered a job opportunity at Mr. Gojo's Ranch where exotic, undesirable, or hard-to-adopt hybrids are given a loving home. Despite his kind-hearted soul everyone has to earn their keep here, even you.
Inspired by Mr. A's farm and Cloud Meadow
Notes: Reader is a cis woman with she/her pronouns. No specific body type or race is given. Also you're broke.
Word count: 3k
Cross posted on ao3
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |
Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Ending
The sun was shining unusually bright as your car rattled through what seemed like miles of farmland. The listing photos hadn't done justice to how massive the legendary Satoru Gojo's ranch was. It had taken you forever to get here, and now the sun was already setting right behind his ranch house, burning the whole horizon in a bleeding orange.
Well, he did say I could show up whenever I wanted today. Maybe that's a good sign. Maybe he already wants me.
You'd been trying to scrape together enough to move back home when his ad flashed on your TV, right as you were reading yet another rejection email.
Live-in ranch hand. No experience required. Exceptional compensation. Must be comfortable with long-term, live-in commitment.
Exceptional compensation rang throughout your head the entire drive. You hadn't had exceptional anything in a long time. Not since you stopped living with your stepdad, and especially not since your hours were cut at the diner. His lecture still rang in your head from your last phone call.
“Come back and accept his proposal. You're clearly not cut out to make your own choice. I wouldn't be surprised if you've already started whoring yourself out to make rent.”
No, you couldn't go back. If you did, you'd never be independent again. Instead, you'd be stuck as some upper-middle manager's wife while he banged his secretary. Then, twenty years from now, he's divorcing you for his intern, but you couldn't let that happen so you kill him to get the insurance, and she catches you in the act so now you have to kill her and—
Damn, you really needed to stop watching true crime documentaries.
As your car bumped up the rocky driveway, your eyes shifted to your cracked flip phone. The texts you’d sent your “friends” last night were still left on read. You gripped the steering wheel harder as you thought about Mei Mei, who had simply left you on sent. Ever since you told them you weren't in contact with your POS stepdad anymore, they started ignoring you.
If I get this job, I'll only have to work for at least two years instead of five. Maybe if I sell some old clothes and call them vintage, cut back on a few expenses, and start visiting different food banks...
You were lost in thought, calculating how you were going to survive off rotisserie chicken, when the porch light clicked on. As you shut off your engine and opened your door, the front door slammed open and Satoru Gojo stepped out.
Despite the fading sun, he wore a pair of dark sunglasses. The videos online really hadn't prepared you for the suffocating gravity of him in person. He was tall — impossibly tall. His broad shoulders filled the doorframe before he sauntered down the steps.
"Hey! Welcome to the ranch!"
His voice was a rich, vibrating baritone that soothed your anxiety. You had to crane your neck just to meet his face when he reached you. He made you feel incredibly small, but instead of feeling intimidated it was unnaturally pleasant.
"You came right on time. I just finished making dinner. There's extra if you're hungry."
The dying sun lit up behind him like a halo, gilding the white tips of his hair gold, but your eyes were transfixed on his body. The top half of his red flannel was unbuttoned, pushed back to reveal a tight, sweat-dampened white tank top underneath. The thin cotton hugged the thick slabs of pectoral muscles and the hard lines of his abdomen. You could see the faint sheen of sweat clinging to the hollow of his throat, tracing down into the shadow of his exposed collar bone.
He noticed you were zoned out and waved a hand in front of your face.
"Hey. Still with me?”
Your cheeks burned with embarrassment as you rapidly nodded.
“Knew you'd eventually come.” He murmured. "Sorry about the directions. The hybrids are exotic, so I like to keep the location a secret. I can trust you, right?" He leaned down so you were face-to-face when he asked and you could smell the intoxicating scent of dark chocolate on his breath mixed with the whatever expensive cologne he was wearing.
It should've felt degrading, but the image of him slaving over a hot stove with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows exposing his thick forearms, overode your self respect.
"Yeah! Of course, Mr. Gojo or Gojo-san? On your ads, they call you Mr. Gojo." You stammered, feeling the heat radiate off his muscular body.
"Great. But call me Satoru." His jaw tightened imperceptibly. "Mr. Gojo makes me feel old."
He stepped around the side of your car. "Now-"
He peered into the side window, frowned, and moved to the back. Then, without asking, he opened your driver's door and popped your trunk. Without asking he began rummaging around, and grunted in confusion when it didn't have whatever he was looking for.
"Where are your bags?" he asked, shutting the trunk.
"My bags? You mean, like a work bag?" You asked anxiously.
Shit. I already showed up late, and now I'm underprepared. He didn't say anything about this over the phone, did he?
Your mind scrambled back towards the phone interview a few days prior, but his voice cut through your thoughts.
"I've got some spare clothes." Satoru said smoothly, casually leaning against your car, drawing your eyes down to the way his worn denim jeans hugged his thighs. "They won't fit you great, but you said on the phone you could tailor. That wasn't just a getting-to-know-you thing, right? I can't be the only one here who's any good with a needle."
“Isn't this the final interview?” You asked, confused.
You hadn't packed any clothes and the only thing you'd brought was a folder with your references in it. Though, you hope he didn't look at them since two of those references were just your friends.
Satoru tilted his head. Even behind the dark lenses, you could feel the heavy weight of his stare.
"The interview.” He said slowly. Now sounding just as confused as you did. “We did the interview. On the phone. You got the job. Why else would I give you the directions? I don't hand those out to people I'm still thinking about."
"I… I thought today was just to meet in person." Your folder suddenly felt incredibly stupid in your hands. "I figured if it went well I'd go home, pack, and-"
"Go home?" He let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "No, no. It went beautifully last week. You're here now, so let's get you inside."
You looked back down the dark, rocky driveway, biting your lip anxiously. The directions had taken you over an hour, and you weren't sure you could retrace them in the pitch black.
"It's a long way back." Satoru murmured gently. "And you're already here. Stay tonight. I made some pasta using squid ink. You'll love it.”
As the sun finally set and darkness swallowed the road behind you, you nodded, following him into the warmth of his house.
꒷꒦˘꒦꒷˘꒷˘꒷˘꒷꒦˘꒷꒦˘꒷꒦˘꒷꒷꒦˘꒷꒦
You weren't sure what you’d expected from a man who ran a rescue for exotic hybrids, but the inside of his house was immaculate. The hardwood floors were polished to a mirror shine, doubling the warm, amber glow of the house lights. A candle burned steadily on a side table, filling the living room with the comforting scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls. You tried not to let it get to your head that he had likely lit it just for you.
◦° ∘ ﾟ ｡ ﾟ ｡ ﾟﾟ ｡ ◦ ﾟ ｡ ♡ ∘ ° ∘ ° ｡ ｡ ﾟﾟ
Your apartment was the exact opposite. You winced thinking about the clutter that piled up because you were always too tired to deal with it.
"Like the house, huh? A friend gave me some ideas, but I thought up most of it. I'm trying out this style called maximalism. Looks great, right?” Satoru said, tossing a smirk over his shoulder as he led the way.
You'd been in plenty of houses that were flagrantly over decorated to show off their wealth, but Satoru's home felt homey instead. The framed photos lining the hall definitely helped. There were multiple shots of him and another tall man with long, dark hair. In one, the two of them wore matching school uniforms, leaning into each other and smiling brightly at the camera.
It made you think of your own years at school. How you didn't have a photo like that hanging in your apartment.
In a newer picture, the two of them sat together at the edge of a lake, except his friend's lower body had become a writhing mass of deep purple tentacles. Strangely, he looked happier in that one. Hybrids were considered 3rd class citizens in most places. Turning into one was usually a lamentatious time.
"Very close friend of mine. He's a late-bloomer hybrid." Satoru noted, catching your gaze. His pleasant expression shifted, and a brief flash of irritation tightened his jaw. "We have another one here who has a…unique personality. Don't let him push you around tomorrow. As long as I'm here, he'll behave”
You nodded, a little nervous at the warning. His large hand came to rest between your shoulder blades to softly urge you forward towards the kitchen. The smell of cooking grew stronger as you got closer and what greeted you had your mouth watering.
Hefty rolls of fan tuan sat on a plate, the sticky purple rice pairing with blackened-orange, char-grilled carrots. Beside it sat a heavy pot of pitch-black spaghetti the inky strands making the plump cherry tomatoes mixed into it pop like jewels. Sitting at the end of the table were two thick slices of dark chocolate cake.
"This looks incredible. You're sure it's okay if I have some?" You asked, a little too eagerly.
Satoru chuckled, throwing a heavy arm over your shoulders. Despite the savory aromas filling the kitchen, all you could smell was his expensive amber cologne.
"It'll be the best thing you've tasted all month." His voice rumbled right next to your ear as he pulled out a chair and steered you into it. "All year, actually.”
He pushed your chair in once you sat down, then settled into the one beside you closer than was strictly normal. A week ago it might have felt awkward, but you found his eccentricities almost endearing. You reached out and spooned a modest portion onto your plate. Satoru took the serving spoon from you and piled on more.
“No need to be stingy. Have as much as you want.”
He grabbed a rice roll, dipping it into a pool of chili sauce. Eagerly, you twirled the black pasta around your fork and took a bite. The flavor had a mild fishy taste, accompanied by a faint, metallic undertone that paired perfectly with the cherry tomatoes. Before you had even finished chewing, your fork was twisting up another bite.
“Satoru, this is amazing! I've never had anything like this before, but is there a lot of spice in this? I feel kinda warm.”
“Nothing you can't handle.” Satoru purred. “I used a special, spiced squid ink from a local source. It has a bit of a kick to it though. Are you feeling alright?” A look of worry crossed his face.
"Yes!" You replied hastily, not wanting him to feel offended that the pasta was too spicy.
You twist up another rope of pasta before you were even done chewing, feeling ravenous, over the best thing you had eaten in months. Having a man cook for you made you hungry for something else but you shamefully shook that idea away.
"Satoru, this is amazing. I've never had anything like it. Do you have a secret restaurant tucked away somewhere too?"
"Nah." He shrugged, pleased. "Didn't like my usual takeout, figured I could do better, so I did. I don't cook like this every night. Though, maybe I will with all this praise I'm getting.” He grinned at you and you felt your cheeks warm up.
You scarfed down the pasta while Satoru worked through everything else, and when the warmth in your body began to spread. His cologne smelled stronger, and it made you realize how close his chair was to yours. He draped an arm on the back of your chair which made his thigh brush against yours. He was just being friendly and here you were treating him like a Victorian woman showing an ankle.
It’s just been so long. This'll pass. You prayed.
While you couldn't normally afford this much to eat, your stepfather’s constant criticism had you eating less and less. Any trip to the store had you automatically flipping to the back to check the calories. Even now, when you were no longer worried about your figure for your future husband, Satoru's toned body made you jealous.
He nudged your shoulder as your fork slowed down and it made you jolt from how sensitive your skin was.
"Eat as much as you want. You'll need it. We've got a lot ahead of us tomorrow.”
His attentiveness made the warmth in your body spread even farther. You ate more pasta to distract yourself from what you were feeling.
He pushed the slice of cake towards you and you took a bite. The chocolate was decadently sweet and given a stronger flavor by…by what?
"Coffee." He said, before you could even ask. "I mixed it in to bring out the chocolate. Frosting's nothing special, though. I bought it pre-made and whipped some softened butter into it.”
You took another bite as he rose and opened the fridge. He took out a pitcher of tea and poured two glasses. The sharp crack of ice tinkled like wind chimes as he put a few in and set a glass down in front of you.
“Is this peach tea?”
"Apricot lemon. I've got an apricot and lemon tree — they grow them this big." He held out a hand and you raised an eyebrow. "Aww, don't give me that look. They're hand-sized, I swear. I'd show you, but they grow on a recursive island — it's an island in the middle of a lake — and you'd have to get Suguru or Kenjaku to pick them for you. But those two hog all the good ones. I get stuck with the runts.”
You couldn't help the giggle that slipped out at his rambling. Despite his build he seemed like a nerdy guy with the way he was so knowledgeable, technically he even had glasses on.
I just got hired and I'm already developing a crush on my boss. It's just because I haven't gotten out much these days.
But as you watched his throat bob as took another swig of sweet tea, and you knew it was going to be an uphill battle.
"It's getting late." He set his glass down. "I'll show you to your room and dig up something for you to work in later on. What you've got on is fine for work tomorrow — you won't be doing any real work anyway.”
You glanced down at yourself and cringed. You'd dressed for what you thought was a second interview: a high-waisted pencil skirt and a short-sleeved blouse. You looked like an elementary school teacher who'd gotten left behind on a field trip.
You picked up your plate, but Satoru slipped the dish from your grip, stacking it atop his own.
“I'll get the dishes since you're my guest today.” He said as he put them in the sink.
He then placed his hand on the small of you back and led you towards the stairs. You could feel the heat from his palm right through your shirt and despite how it was warmer than your body heat it felt good. The floorboards creaked beneath your feet as you followed him and soon you found yourself in an even cozier part of his home.
Woolen carpet comforted your feet as he walked you towards your room and inside was a fully furnished bedroom, minus any of his personal decorations. The plush mattress was covered by thin silk sheets for the hot summer climate. Right outside the window the lake gleamed under the moonlight. Considering how close it was, if you opened your window you could probably hear light splashing from the animals outside.
"Got an eye for it." He leaned against the doorframe. "If I'd let Suguru have his way, there'd be plush toys piled in every corner. He swears women love them — probably just eavesdropping on his daughters."
"Actually," you admitted sheepishly, "I do love plushies. The jumbo ones are always sold out, though.”
You walked over and sat down on the bed, letting out a low moan of satisfaction at how incredible it felt against your sensitive skin. After sleeping on a rock for a mattress back home, this felt like a cloud.
"There's spare clothes in the dresser. Take whatever you like, I won't mind." He turned toward the door. "I'll introduce you to everyone tomorrow. Get some rest. You'll need it."
"Thank you, Satoru."
"No problem." He smiled back at you and his gaze made you shiver. "Welcome to the ranch.”
He closed the door and the latch clicked, leaving you alone to your thoughts. You opened up one of the dresser drawers and pulled out a large shirt with his ranch's logo plastered in the middle. The soft fabric felt good in your hands and you couldn't stop yourself as you pressed it against your nose. Your body felt electric and warm — too warm. You took your clothes off and quickly put his on before pulling up the collar and rubbing it against your nose.
Stop! What am I doing? I should be ashamed of myself for acting this way when he's just trying to be nice. God, he probably has a girlfriend. What am I doing.
You turn off the light and climb into bed as you try to ignore the feeling that maybe your stepfather was right. That you'd sell yourself just for a place to sleep.
im a really big fan of your its peaceful fic and i had a few questions if youre comfortable with answering them!
does reader in its peaceful ever actually attempt to seek out naoya or his touch? do they despise him or pity him?
also does reader ever climax with him or does he leave them hanging
So long as the questions don't go against my rules (stuff with animals, druggie!reader,ect...) I'm ALWAYS happy to answer anything :D
She absolutely would because he'd isolate her from all her friends plus she has a powerful technique so other Zenin's would go along with Naoya's delusions. At first she would try to talk to the other Zenin's about literally anything but they'd just ask her why she isn't with Naoya or in his side of the estate if he's not there. That means if she ever wants to talk about something her only option is Naoya.
At first they would despise Naoya for ruining her life but eventually as time goes on they'd learn to pity him because he's like this because of his family. He's still 100% in the wrong but reader has no one else to really talk to so they start seeing him as both a victimizer and a victim. Because of this dynamic she likes to hug him sometimes
I'd say he tries to make reader climax unless they've pissed him off in which case he'll just use reader's body or give them a ruined orgasm.
you shift nervously in the leather chair across from higuruma in his office. he listens intently as you describe your stalker's behavior - spilling your guts out to the man you think is your savior. it started so sweetly, you know? you tell him, the anonymous flowers left on your doorsteps, the admiring notes left on your car. it felt like an harmless secret admirer. like someone out there just got you.
until the behaviour started changing. the flowers became wilted and dead. the notes turned possessive, detailing what you wore that day, who you talked to. and it just started getting so private, like you're being watched for twenty four hours.
you hesitate but end up telling him everything, he's just so concerned about you, and he does seem like a trustable lawyer, so you didn’t want to hide any details from him. you tell him about the worst part, the thing that made you finally break down and call him. you talk about your underwear going missing from the dryer, only to reappear on your bed, stretched out, stained. you confess how you found photos of yourself on your desk. sleeping, sometimes even half naked. you tell him how you wake up feeling a little weird and there's a lingering smell like someone has been here. you're so scared, so vulnerable, and higuruma’s just nodding, taking notes, the perfect fucking professional. like he's the perfect picture of a concerned lawyer. "that's not good, when did you first notice the change in behavior?" he asks, he's so so methodical, scribbling notes on a legal pad.
so professional for someone who knows the exact date it changed. the exact date that stalker became so bold and a little insane after watching you flirt with a random man at the bar.
so professional for someone who knows your daily routine - what time you wake up, or go to shower, what days you have off and which drink you always order at the bar, and so much more.
so professional for someone who remembers the exact feel of your panties, how he pressed them to his face and inhaled your scent before wrapping them around his cock that night. he remembers the thrill of slipping into your apartment, the soft click of your bedroom window, the way his dick got rock hard just watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you slept. he even has a photo of you right now inside his pocket and he has a dozens more like that, safely stored in a locked drawer at his home.
but you don't know anything.
"i don't really remember when it changed," you say, sounding innocent. "it just happened." you're trying so hard to remember, so fucking oblivious that the man who's going to save you is the one who left you feeling so violated.
higuruma hums, his voice calm and steady. "did you keep any of the notes? we need to establish a pattern."
"no, i don't know why but they just disappear.." you say disappointedly.
but he knows. he knows you didn't keep the notes, because he collected them all himself the next day while you were at work.
higuruma looks at you, "well, this is deeply disturbing," he says, his voice low and serious. he leans forward, putting on his most reassuring voice. "we'll build a case, get a restraining order. you'll be safe."
god, you're so fucking stupid. so innocent. the way your face lights up with relief, a small smile gracing your lips as you look at him like he's your savior. you look at him, really look at him, with those big, tear-filled eyes, and you give him a small, grateful smile. "thank you for listening, mr. higuruma. i feel... safer already."
of course you feel safe around him. you're supposed to feel safe. he is your savior after all. though higuruma doesn’t understand why'd you need help. why'd you want protection when you never needed to be saved at all. he's a little angry that you needed to be saved - from him. but he's still grateful that out of everyone, you came right back to him. right where you belonged.
you've always been safe with him, you're just too stupid to realize it.
but oh how he wants to shove every fucking thing off his desk, bend you over it, hike up that skirt, and show you exactly what kind of danger you're in. he wants to hear you say his name like that again, but gasping and crying it out while he's buried inside you he wants to make you cry out for real, to feel your body clench around his cock as he whispers in your ear exactly how he's been watching you, how he's touched your things, how he's been touching you.
you're sitting there thanking him, completely unaware that you're smiling at the devil himself, and he's fighting the urge to show you exactly what kind of help he can really give you. the thought of your innocent trust mixed with his depraved lust makes him so fucking hard he has to shift in his chair, hiding the strain against his trousers.
"of course," he manages, his voice a little rougher than he intended. "anything to help my client."
if only you knew. you're not just a client. you're his. and all he can think about is how good it felt to be that close to you, how he's the only one who truly sees you.
now, you're begging him to save you from the monster, and he's just wondering how much longer he has to keep up this fucking charade before higuruma can finally have you for real.
Hi! I'm from ao3. Since it was mentioned in its peaceful fic that naoya hates cucking, would he still think its unacceptable when the genders are swapped? Sorry if i typo, english is not my first language
Hi! Your English is great, no worries at all!
If we're talking about a woman getting cucked, then Naoya definitely approves in theory. He's been caught cheating on his girlfriends in the past and doesn't care to stop when he's caught. He's never really been able to pull off a full cuckqueen scenario, though, mostly because the woman he'd be cheating with usually gets pissed that she's the "other woman" and leaves before he can set it up perfectly.
Even though making a woman watch is humiliating to her and a massive ego boost for him, Naoya already sees just being a woman as humiliating enough. To him, women are already beneath him, so the act of cuckqueening doesn't do as much for him as you'd think. Because of that, he doesn't actively seek it out.
However, once he's with you, it's not something he'd think about unless you asked him about it in which case, he'd absolutely be down to put you in your place. But, since he is intensely yandere and possessive over you specifically, you'd get cuckqueened for like a minute. He'd get distracted by you, turn it into a threesome to assert dominance over both of you, and then eventually just get annoyed and kick the other woman out so he can have you all to himself.
---
You've dejectedly accepted your fate as Naoya's fiancée. Unfortunately, his appetite for you has only become more ravenous since you stopped fighting it.
The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame. Naoya was already pulling at his hakama before it swung shut behind him.
"That's it, just lay right where you are, woman. The job went well. Mostly 'cause I knew you were waitin' to properly greet me."
He was half-naked when he climbed onto the bed, the metal of his piercings catching the lamplight. Usually you could roll onto your stomach and he'd be fine with it but tonight his hand caught your hip and pinned you flat on the mattress.
"Nuh-uh. Wanna see your face."
He pushed your kimono up and roughly shoved your panties to the side. You gripped the sheets as he spat on his fingers. He rubbed up and down your pussy before quickly thrusting his fingers inside. He scissored inside of you, stretching you with two more fingers while his thumb callously dug into your clit. Soon he pulled out and pushed his boxers down; his rock-hard cock sprang free. The curved barbell at the tip already weeping pre and the ladder of rungs glinting from the light.
There's my good girl gettin' wet for me." He scissored his fingers and you whined. "Yeah, I know, I know. Be patient."
You got lucky today since it seemed he wasn't going to use his technique, but it'd be nice if he could prepare you for a bit longer. Naoya was big, and he knew it.
"I'll have one of my useless brothers record me next time. So you can see what your husband looks like out there." He pressed the head against you and pushed in slow. "Fuck. Fuck, that's- damn that's good pussy. That's my pussy. 's all you women are good for. At least you know your place."
He bottomed out and leaned down to kiss you, his cock jack hammering into your cervix. By now you'd learned that meant he was already close. He always came embarrassingly fast the first round, and he'd punish you for it in the next round. He pulled away to bite sharply into your neck.
"Of course, Nao- ahh— Naoya-sama. Only for you... but maybe my place is next to your second wife?"
His hips stuttered but he didn't stop . He braced up on his elbow to look down at you as his brows knitted together.
"...the hell did you just say?" His cock twitched inside you despite the scowl. "Nursy. Don't say weird shit like that while I'm tryin' to focus. You tryin' to ruin it for me?"
"Just thinking about it," you murmured, reaching up to cup his cheek. He leaned into your palm immediately like a cat. "For you. So you'd have everything you deserve."
In truth, you just wanted someone to pick up the extra labor.
---
You'd just finished folding some laundry when you returned to his room and found Naoya tangled up with another woman on his bed, her hand fisted in his hair as his mouth nibbled at her throat.
Oh! I guess he's cheating on me then.
He pulled away from her, smirking when he saw your blank expression, and winked at you.
"Sit your fat ass in that chair." Naoya commanded. "It's about time I demonstrated what an actual obedient bitch looks like. Right, Emi?"
The woman, presumably Emi, giggled and bit her lip. "Mmmhmmm. Whatever you say, Nao-kun."
You set the basket down and moved to the chair. Naoya went right back to her like you weren't there, tugging her skirt off — his hands roaming her in showy enthusiasm. Emi pawed at his boxers and his cock sprang out, already hard. He reached over to the nightstand and rolled on a condom then maneuvered her onto her side so he was facing you as he pushed in.
"Eyes on me nursy. You should know what my cock looks like when it's gettin' top-tier pussy."
You nodded politely and folded your hands in your lap.
"Mmmm, Nao-kun, you're so big." Emi started.
"Take off your top, woman."
Emi eagerly reached up to take her shirt off, but Naoya viciously slapped her hand away.
"Not you." He jerked his chin at you. "And c'mere while you're at it."
You stood and started undoing your clothes as you crossed the room, disappointed to be promoted from spectator to participant so quickly. Once you were close enough, he caught your wrist and tugged you down onto the bed. After that he pawed at you to take the rest of your clothes off.
"Oh!" Emi perked up, smile returning, hand drifting to your thigh. "A threesome? Yeah, okay, your girlfriend's actually really cute, I'm down-"
"Wife." Naoya said without looking at her, and his hand snapped down to knock hers off your leg. "She's my wife. Don't touch."
Emi blinked. "...okay?"
Then he picked you up like you weighed nothing and laid you down on top of Emi, your back to her chest. Emi let out a muffled oof.
"There. I've always wanted to put you in your place like this. Look right into my eyes while I fuck another woman. See how pathetic you are, forced to just lay there. I bet your sloppy pussy is dripping at the thought of being replaced."
Emi shifted underneath you as Naoya pushed back inside, every thrust rocking her body and yours together. His eyes dropped to your tits as they bounced from the secondhand motion. Awkwardly, you tried to make light conversation.
"My husband feels good, doesn't he, Emi?"
"God, yes, he's so big, he feels ama-"
"Aw, what, you gettin' jealous, kitten?" Naoya cut in, smirking. "Relax. I'd never leave the runner-up hangin'."
He leaned down and closed his mouth over your nipple, tongue piercing dragging across the peak, and his rhythm slowed down as he got distracted. He popped off, switched to the other one, and by the time he lifted his head again his hips had stopped entirely. Emi grunted in frustration beneath you. Naoya then rolls you off of her and positions himself behind you as he takes the condom off.
"Tch. I can't focus with you whining. Back to your plain pussy, I guess."
His palm cracked against your ass.
"Remi's was way better. Tighter too. You're lucky your my wife, you little cuck."
"It's Emi."
He ignored her and thrust into you, giving a low moan as he did.
Emi reached out to pinch your nipple, trying to stay involved but Naoya's hand shot up to grope your breast. Covering it with his palm.
"Aah y-you're right, Naoya-sama. I'm so plain. You should be with prettier girls. Girls like Emi."
"Mmhm, you should, I'm right here." Emi tried, scooting closer.
He ignored her as his other hand fisted your hair, yanking your head back as he fucked into you harder. The bed creaking violently as his hips slapped against your ass.
"Quiet talking, both of you. How's a man supposed to focus."
Emi sat up, crossed her arms, and watched the two of you before muttering "unbelievable" and gathering her clothes. You reached a hand toward her to try and make her stay but Naoya hauled you up by the hair and waist until you were seated in his lap, your back to his chest. Lazily bouncing you on his cock as he kissed your shoulders.
"My spare cunt's so well behaved." He purred into the back of your neck, one hand sliding down to splay flat across your lower belly. "But we don't need any more girls. Just you and me. And soon-" His fingers pressed across your belly "Our nice little family."
You closed your eyes in dejection that your plan was foiled.
Summary: While on vacation, your rental car breaks down. Luckily for you it looks like there's a house deep in the swamp. Hopefully they'll let you charge your phone.
---
Poetry, magazines, and old newspapers were all Mahito had left to read for now. Whilst busying himself he discovers someone is where they don't belong. He can't let you leave, not until dinner is served.
---
Years from now. Mahito looks back on this day as his first dinner (date) with you.
Notes: This is not a crossover, but a resident evil 7 AU. No resident evil characters will appear.
Cross posted on ao3
Word count: 3.6k
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |
Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 |
Ending
Mahito sighed and laid back on his bed as he finished reading his poetry book. It wasn't something that usually interested him, but it was the last piece of literature he hadn't read yet. He stretched out his arm, his bones popping sickeningly, and shoved the spine snugly into his makeshift bookshelf.
He’d amassed a small collection of reading material from what Kenjaku could salvage for him. Unfortunately for Kenjaku, Mahito was a speed reader capable of finishing anything in under a day. Unfortunately for Mahito he got bored easily.
Rolling out of bed, he twisted his torso and sharply cracked his back. He didn't actually need to align his spine, but he'd seen plenty of humans do it so he thought it'd be funny if he did it too. It'd be great if he could share his morning joke with someone, but humans were such a nuisance and the other creatures Kenjaku made were so serious all the time. So boring.
He looked around his room for something else to do, but he only had a deck of cards and a few board games. He'd tried a couple of times to get Nobara and Junpei to play with him, but they were such sore losers about everything. If Kenjaku let him, he would've turned them into something more useful ages ago.
As he was about to resign himself to solitaire he heard a loud crash coming from down stairs and gave a dramatic sigh.
Gojo must be awake and out of his room again.
Normally he'd just reach out and shape a stray human back into compliance — that was the best way to handle them — but Kenjaku had been insistent that Gojo was special. Unlike all the other humans they'd infected, Gojo could periodically claw his way back to consciousness, and he'd become absurdly strong while he was at it. Last time he got loose he tore Jogo's arm clean off.
Mahito had been watching him for weeks now, and he'd noticed something Kenjaku hadn't. Whenever Gojo was blinded it started to reverse the infection. Now he could tell Kenjaku about this, but he seemed to like figuring things out himself so it'll just be his secret for now.
Maybe if I break his ankles he won't notice.
With ease he began to soften the bones in his legs into muscle. Where his legs used to be elongated and morphed into a smoother texture until, from the waist down, he had a thick serpent's tail dragging itself across the floorboards. It was faster than walking, and he liked the way the wood felt against his belly. He poured himself out the door and down the hallway.
At the top of the staircase, feeling lazy, he draped himself over the banister and tried to slide down it like he'd seen in an old movie. However the railing, decades into its slow surrender to the swamp's decaying nature, cracked under his weight. He tumbled off to the side before gracelessly slamming at the bottom of the steps.
He huffed in annoyance as he got back up, noticing he'd snapped off the first floor railing from his fall. He'd fix it later. Probably.
Legs reformed beneath him as he walked to the foyer to look for Gojo. It took him a minute to get there when he stopped dead in his tracks.
There, lined up neatly by the door, was a pair of shoes that definitely didn't belong to anyone in the house. He tilted his head as he crouched down to pick one up, turning it in his hand. He pressed his thumb into the insole and realized they were still warm inside.
"Oh!" He licked his lips as a smile crept across his face, setting the shoes back down. “Someone’s trespassing. Can't have you leaving anytime soon.”
He turned and saw a phone plugged into the wall but decided to leave it there. He had something else on his mind as he opened the front door and stepped outside.
The humid evening air washed over his face and his body immediately reacted. He could feel his stitches pinching him as they tightened and, despite the humidity, his skin started to dry. The mold didn't like the outside. He didn't like the outside. He'd learned that the hard way.
If he'd continued to walk forward and pass the gates his skin would start to crack and split open while the stitches holding his limbs together would rot off. He's no stranger to pain; he could probably tough through it for a few miles before it'd be physically impossible for him to move.
For now, he couldn't leave.
He walked around the side of the house to the back gate, ducked his head as the vines pawed at his hair, then stretched. His legs and torso elongated like taffy as his ribs slid apart until he could step over the rusted gate with one long stride. He then compressed back to normal size on the other side and made for the shed.
Standing in front of the locked door, he molded the tip of his finger into the shape of a key, slotted it into the padlock, and turned. The door squeaked open and a dim bulb buzzed to life inside, drenching yellow light across the cramped room.
Despite its dilapidated state it was neatly organized for Mahito’s convenience. He formed a backpack on his skin and tossed in a drill, a fistful of screws, three warped boards he'd salvaged from the dock, and a small case of sedatives.
He'd started hiding them all over the house ever since Gojo had begun his little wakeful episodes. A good resident was a prepared resident after all! He kicked the shed door shut and made his way back inside.
He holds up the first board and gets to work drilling it into place — his tongue sticking out in concentration. The wood split a little where he overdrove the screws, but on the whole he thought he was getting better at this. Finished, he steps back to admire his handiwork.
“Now, where did you go?”
He unhinged his jaw and his tongue unspooled from his mouth. Tasting your salty sweat lingering in the stagnant air, it twisted around before determining you were in the main hall. His tongue snaked back in his mouth as he began to head there.
Then he heard a crash but this time it was followed by someone talking. His ears were keen enough for him to hear them speak.
”Oh my God! Are you okay, sir?!"
Mahito froze, and then his face split into a wide grin.
"Oh, come on." He laughed. "Gojo got to her first? I'm completely off my game today."
He set off down the hallway at a leisurely pace and sure enough, a minute later there was another crash. It sounded like a bunch of glass had broke. He frowned, quickly realizing Kenjaku stored most of his mold samples in that room.
Damn. He's gonna blame me for that and then he'll get me some trash book he knows I don't like.
He still hadn't forgiven Kenjaku for the last time. He'd asked for a book on human sexual anatomy but Kenjaku had given him a book about sexual pleasure instead. An interesting read, sure, but overall it was disgusting. Humans finding pleasure in their own bodies using their own fluids to do it. Ugh! He'd been petty about it for weeks.
By the time he reached the hallway off the back staircase, Gojo was already on the ground, clawing at his own face as the black veins in his throat thrashed under the skin. Mahito drew a syringe from his sleeve, uncapped it with his teeth, and sank the needle deep into Gojo's neck. Tears pricked at the corners of Gojo's eyes before they rolled back, and he went slack.
"Sleep tight," Mahito said, patting his cheek.
He stepped over him and pushed open the storage-room door.
It was a mess.
He nudged a cracked open stray bottle as puffs of whatever was inside dissolved in the air. Out of curiosity he picked it up but the label had torn clean off when the glass broke. He set it back down and looked around until he spotted it. Blood.
A long, smeared streak of it leading across the floorboards and through a jagged hole in the rotted drywall with handprints along the edges.
"Aww," he sighed, dropping his head in mock disappointment. "And I walked all the way over here. You're really making me work for it, aren't you."
He crouched, pressed two fingers to the smear of blood, and brought them to his mouth.
His eyes fluttered shut at the taste.
Iron. Salt. His tongue rolled the taste against the roof of his mouth like wine.
You taste delicious, don't you human. I wonder…
His lower body shifted again and he poured himself into the hole in the wall as a long pale serpent dragging itself through plaster dust and drywall. He moved more carefully than he had on the stairs. Wanting to savor stalking after the new guest.
He emerged in the foyer just in time to see an unfamiliar human woman standing in front of the boarded-up door, shoulders shaking in fear.
He stood up to his full height a few feet behind you and leaned down until his breath ghosted across the shell of their ear.
"Found you~𝅘𝅥𝅮."
Before she could even turn, Mahito immediately swung his fist. It connected with the side of their head with a sickening thud and he watched them crumpled to the floor.
Mahito frowned, poking the unconscious human’s cheek with the toe of his boot. Blood soon began to pool around their head as they laid there.
"Hmm. You humans really do go down easy." He said, disappointed that the chase was already over.
He'd been hoping you would scream first or even try to fight back.
The grandfather clock in the main hall chimed and Mahito's whole face brightened.
It was dinner time!
He scooped you up and gave your limp body an excited little shake. He'd been dining alone for months now. The others didn't count since Nobara and Junpei would just argue with each other or stare blankly as they ate. But you. You were new, tasty, and interesting.
He hoisted you up on his shoulder and carried you down the hall to the dining room, where the long table sat under a chandelier furred with cobwebs. He set you down in one of the high-backed chairs, propped your head up so it wouldn't loll forward, and rooted around in the sideboard drawer until he found some duct tape.
He'd just finished winding the tape around your wrists and forearms when he noticed the blood was still flowing from your head.
A slow red trickle was working its way down from your temple, dripping steadily onto the upholstery, and a dent had formed in the side of your skull where his fist had landed.
"Hmph." He clicked his tongue, displeased. "Messy."
He reached up and cupped your face. Under his hand, your skull was reshaped back to how it was. He drew his hand back and tilted his head as he studied his handiwork.
Better.
He licked the blood off his palm and started toward the kitchen.
The fridge was a disaster — it always was. He had no idea where Kenjaku found the groceries he stocked it with, and frankly he didn't care, but he managed to dig out a carton of eggs and a half-block of cheese from behind something fuzzy looking. He set them on the counter, grabbed a pan, and got to work.
He'd been trying to learn to make omelettes lately after reading ‘The Physiology of Taste’. His own attempts kept ending in scrambled eggs, but he was getting closer. Today's batch was… almost passable looking!
He was sliding it onto some plate when he heard the dragging shuffle of footsteps in the hallway.
Nobara and Junpei don't cook or clean but they make sure they're right on time for dinner. I make this house into a home I swear. He tutted as he finished plating the food.
Mahito glanced over his shoulder toward the dining room, where you sat slumped and silent in the chair. He couldn't wait to introduce everyone.
He morphed two more arms and carried the scrambled omelettes to the dining room. Nobara was already at the table, mashing a few stray centipedes with her hammer while Junpei across from her idly scratching at the weeping lesions running up his arms. Mahito sighed at the sight. Where were their manners? In front of a guest, no less. Speaking of which. You still hadn't moved.
Maybe she needs a little of that chemical agent I've seen Kenjaku drink.
He set the plates down and headed for the sunroom. Even at this hour, the room was washed pale by moonlight pouring through the warped glass. He went to a locked cabinet, morphed his finger back into a key, and pulled out a bag of cloudy fluid. On his way back, he plucked the stem off an herb growing on the windowsill, dropped it into the bag, and shook it as he walked.
You awoke to a horrible, chemical burning in your throat.
Once he returned he grabbed a fist full of your hair to pull your head back before pouring the concoction down your throat. He sat at the head of the table in front of you as you soon woke up — coughing your lungs out.
You were choking, violently coughing up a bitter liquid that tasted like petroleum jelly.
“What the- cough fuck where am I?” You spluttered, eyes wide and unfocused.
Your vision swam into focus. You were sitting at a massive, filthy dining room table draped in cobwebs. You tried to stand, only to realize your arms were heavily duct-taped to the chair. Panic surged as you thrashed against the bindings.
To your right, a woman with short orange hair gave you a look of pure disgust as she flicked a large, writhing insect off her plate directly at you.
“Don't tell me I have to room with her from now on. She looks like she snores. Bleh!”
To your left, a man with dark hair covering half his face tossed a chunk of grayish, rotting meat at you. “Pay attention, bitch. Don't ignore Nobara when she's talking to you.”
SLAM
Nobara brought a heavy hammer down on the table, instantly liquifying another bug.
“You tell her, Junpei. Who does she think she is?”
You spit the meat that had landed in your mouth out.
“H-hey, stop! Please, just let me go! I'm sorry for coming into your house!” Tears rapidly welled in your eyes as you desperately pulled at the tape.
“Hey now, don't spit that out. I worked hard to make dinner tonight.” The blue haired man in front of you pouts. “Go on. Eat up.”
Nobara and Junpei dug in. They frantically shoveled handfuls of what looked like spoiled food into their mouths. The man across from you didn't touch his plate. Instead he had both hands propped under his chin, just staring at you with his droopy unblinking eyes.
You studied him back.
He was…bizzare looking. Besides his blue hair he had two perpendicular stitches running across his cheeks and bisecting his eye. Speaking of which, they were heterochromic. With one being blue and the other a dull, washed out grey. Unfortunately, he was shirtless and had an average looking build. Despite that he sounded like the man who knocked you out who knows how long ago.
"Take a picture. It'll last longer.” He said playfully while still making no attempt to eat.
“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for breaking in okay? I just want to go back to my car.” You gave the restraints another weak tug as the stitched man rolled his eyes.
“Soooo boring. That's all you keep saying. Stop being rude and eat.” He says while making no attempt to release your binds.
You looked down. The food — if you could call it that — was a slimy mound of yellow mush mixed with dead insects and long strands of blue hair and the plate was encrusted with black grime. To either side of you, Nobara and Junpei didn't seem to mind in the slightest; half of their food was already scarfed down. He was still looking at you. Expectantly.
You took a shaky breath and leaned down as best you could. You nibbled at a portion that looked somewhat edible before immediately spitting it out. Nobara stopped eating when you did.
“She's not eating it, Mahito! Look. Look! I saw her spit it out.” She lunged across the table, snatched your plate, and hurled it at you. You jerked your head sideways and it shattered against the wall behind you. You couldn't stay calm anymore and began to panic.
"Help!" You screamed. "Somebody! Please, help me!”
"Now look what you made her do." Junpei shoved his chair back, knocking it over. "You're wasting good food. I hate you. I hope you die." He stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
From a distance that's when you hear a phone ringing. Nobara’s face shifts to look somewhat sad, before it hardens into a glare.
“I bet it's that fucking pig again. I'll go answer it.” Nobara shoved away from the table but not before giving you the middle finger.
The dining room fell quiet and you started to cry. Mahito gave a loud sigh as you did.
“You know I really wanted to introduce you, but you had to go and ruin dinner.” He tilted his head as he studied you. “Now that I think about it, your kinda…hmmm Kinda stupid. Yeah, I thought you'd be a fun experiment but nevermind. I'll need to kill you before Kenjaku starts nagging me about letting someone else in and blah blah blah.”
He stands up and walks over to you. You try to scoot away but the chair barely moves. He's standing right in front of you when, from the hallway, Nobara's voice cracked into a panicked shout. Telling whatever officer was on the other end of that line no, no, everything's fine. Don't send anyone!
Mahito gave a long, over-the-top sigh and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.
“I have to do everything around here.” He pats your shoulder. “Stay put. I'll be right back.” He says before leaving.
The second the door clicked shut behind him, you threw your weight against your restraints. You couldn't slip your hands out, so you violently threw your upper body to the side.
The chair tipped over and shattered against the floorboards with a loud crack. The armrest split down the middle and the tension snapped the duct tape off. You scrambled to your feet, gasping in pain, and immediately checked the dining room windows for an escape only to see them bolted shut with thick wooden planks.
You crept toward the doors. Taking a peek into the dark hallway, you noticed the windows there were heavily boarded too. Frantically rummaging through a nearby clutter cabinet for a weapon, you found a heavy brass key and pocketed it immediately.
Quietly slipping into a side corridor, you spotted a faded wooden sign pointing toward a sign that said GARAGE. Hope spiked in your chest. You crept down the warped wooden stairs behind it, key already clenched in your fist…
…and your heart sank.
There was what looked like a recently installed heavy metal door locking you out of the garage. The electrical panel connected to the door mechanism was tightly bound shut with layer upon layer of duct tape. You had skills as an electrician but that was useless without a way to open the box.
Retreating frantically back upstairs, you slipped through an ajar door that led into a pitch-black storage room. As your eyes adjusted, you noticed a small wooden hatch built flush into the corner floorboards. You dropped to your knees and yanked the handle.
Fuck its locked. Wait the key!
Hands shaking, you shoved the brass key into the hole and turned with a loud click.
"Aww. Trying to hide, are you?"
Mahito’s sing-song voice drifted playfully from the dining room. Your blood ran cold. He hadn't pinpointed you yet, but the heavy thud of his boots was nearing the corridor.
You quickly threw open the hatch, plunging into the rotting darkness below, and pulled the wooden door shut just as the storage room door creaked open above you.
“Hmm.” His footsteps padded across the floor right above you. “Why can't I sense where you are anymore? Maybe you've been here too long.”
Your heart was hammering so hard you were sure he could hear it through the floorboards. Finally, you heard his footsteps begin to fade away as the door creaked open and then closed.
You could actually focus on your surroundings and notice the smell of damp earth and ammonia choking the air.
This must be a crawlspace underneath the house.
On your hands and knees, with the darkness pressing close on every side, you began to crawl forward.
contents : blobkuna, trueform!sukuna, squirting, monster fucking, unprotected sex, sukuna has two cocks, double penetration, dubcon (?), sukuna's a fat bitch that eats everything in sight
wc: 3.6k
creds to @/phantomosis on x for the sukuna art
a/n: i genuinely laughed so fucking hard while writing this. im actually still laughing rn i am in tears
you would've never thought the king of curses was such a fat fuck. like, seriously, looking back on it now, with sukuna towering over you in his full, monstrous glory—four arms flexed, tattoos gleaming under the dim light of your crappy apartment, and that smug grin splitting his face—you can't help but snort. he's regained his true form somehow, some cursed energy bullshit or whatever, but the memories of him as a pathetic little blob? oh, those are etched in your brain forever. back when he was just a squishy, pinkish lump of cursed flesh, no bigger than a soccer ball, with those tiny mouths yapping nonstop. you found him after the big fight, everyone thought he was done for, but nope. there he was, wriggling weakly in the rubble like a discarded jelly donut.
you were out on patrol, jujutsu sorcerer duties and all that jazz, when you spotted this weird, pulsating thing. at first, you thought it was some low-grade curse, maybe a cursed womb or something gross. but then it spoke. "human... vessel... give me..." in this raspy, weak-ass voice that sounded like a deflated balloon trying to roar. you poked it with your foot, and it jiggled. actually jiggled. that's when you realized—holy shit, this is sukuna. the king of curses, reduced to a blob. you could've exorcised him right there, ended the threat once and for all. but nah. something in you—maybe boredom, maybe spite, maybe just the sheer hilarity of it—made you scoop him up instead.
you wrapped him in an old scarf you had in your bag, ignoring his muffled protests. "what the—unhand me, you insignificant worm! i am ryomen sukuna!" he snarled, but it came out more like a squeak because half his mouths were smooshed against the fabric. you chuckled the whole way home, feeling him squirm against your side like an angry hamster. when you got to your apartment—a cute but cluttered two-bedroom in tokyo—you plopped him down on your coffee table. he rolled a bit, then stopped, just sitting there like a sad meatball.
"welcome home, your majesty," you said, sarcasm dripping from every word. you unwrapped him, and there he was: a blob with eyes and mouths scattered all over, glaring up at you with what little menace he could muster. "what is this insolence? restore me at once!" he demanded, one of his tiny mouths foaming a bit. you just laughed. "restore you? buddy, you're lucky i didn't step on you. you're my pet now. blobkuna. yeah, that has a ring to it."
he hated that name. absolutely despised it. every time you called him blobkuna, he'd vibrate with rage, which just made him jiggle more, which made you laugh harder. you set up a little spot for him on the table—a shallow bowl with some cursed energy-infused water to keep him from drying out or whatever. "look at you, all cozy. need a blankie?" you'd tease, draping a napkin over him like a tent. "remove this at once! i will devour your soul!" he'd snap back, but without limbs or domain expansion or anything, it was just empty threats from a talking pudding.
days turned into weeks, and blobkuna became part of your routine. you'd come home from missions, covered in curse goo or whatever, and there he'd be, sulking in his bowl. "feed me, wench," he'd grumble. you discovered he could absorb small amounts of cursed energy or even bits of food if you mushed it up. so you'd drop in tiny pieces of sushi or whatever you were eating. "here's your royal feast, fatass." he'd gobble it up, then burp cursed energy that smelled like rotten eggs. "this is beneath me. give me a vessel. a proper one. i demand it!"
"nope," you'd say, popping the p. "you're cuter this way. less murdery." he'd insult you right back, of course. "you're a pathetic excuse for a sorcerer. weak. ugly. your technique is laughable." but you'd just flick him lightly, watching him wobble. "says the guy who can't even roll over without help. need me to move you, blob boy?" "yes! move me to a body! any body!" "nah, you're fine right there. besides, you're heavy. what are you, made of lead curses?"
one time, you tried to take him for a "walk." you put him in a little backpack and went to the park. he complained the whole time. "this is humiliating! the king of curses, carried like luggage!" you'd bounce the bag a bit extra just to hear him slosh around. "shut up, or i'll leave you in a bush for the birds to peck." at the park, you set him on a bench, and some kid walked by, staring. "mom, what's that?" the kid asked. you quickly scooped him up before sukuna could scare the poor thing. "just a weird toy, kiddo." back home, he was furious. "you let a child gaze upon me? i will curse their lineage!" "yeah, yeah, big talk from the blob who can't curse a fly right now."
nights were the funniest. you'd be trying to sleep, and he'd start yapping from the living room. "human! i require attention!" you'd groan, shuffle out in your pajamas. "what now?" "move me. this position is uncomfortable." he'd be exactly where you left him, but apparently, blobs get cramps or something. "can you at least turn me? my... side is numb." you'd roll your eyes but do it, flipping him over like a pancake. "there. happy?" "no. give me my body back." "no." "a vessel then. find one." "nope." "at least a finger or something!" "dream on, jelly belly."
you started decorating him for fun. one day, you stuck googly eyes on him—extra ones, since he already had some. "now you look even stupider." he spat curses at you for hours. another time, you drew a little crown on him with marker. "king of blobs." he tried to bite your finger, but without teeth, it was just a gummy nibble. "ow, you little shit." "serves you right, insolent girl." but deep down, you could tell he was getting used to it. or maybe not. he'd plot his revenge aloud sometimes. "when i regain my form, i'll tear you apart slowly. make you beg." you'd just pat him. "sure, sure. want some more water?"
grocery shopping became an adventure. you'd leave him alone for an hour, come back to him having somehow inched himself to the edge of the table. "trying to escape, huh?" "i will not be contained!" but he couldn't even fall off without help. you'd push him back to center. "stay put, fat fuck." that nickname stuck after you weighed him once—five pounds of pure curse. "you're denser than a black hole." he'd retort with stuff about your weight, your looks, your everything. "you're the one who's fat, human. look at those thighs." "at least i have thighs, blob cunt."
movie nights were peak comedy. you'd put on some horror flick, and he'd critique it. "this is child's play. i've done worse." but when a jump scare hit, he'd twitch, which made you cackle. "scared, your highness?" "never! now move me closer to the screen." "no, you'll block the view with your blobbiness." one time, you watched actually rare footage of him back when yuji was his vessel—just to mess with him. "look, that's you! before you got blobbed." he'd seethe. "turn it off! this is mockery!" "nah, it's educational. see, that's why you're a pet now."
you even introduced him to your friends—well, one friend, a fellow sorcerer who thought you were insane. "you kept sukuna? as a pet?" she whispered, staring at the blob. sukuna perked up. "yes, ally with me! restore me!" but your friend just poked him. "he's kinda cute. like a evil stress ball." you both laughed as he raged. after she left, he sulked for days. "betrayed by my own kind." "you're not my kind, blobkuna. you're my pet."
baths were a nightmare. he needed cleaning, or he'd start smelling like old socks. you'd plop him in the sink with some soapy water. "this is degrading!" he'd bubble. "hold still, or i'll use the scrub brush." he'd splash weakly, trying to fight back, but it was like bathing a grumpy sponge. "give me my arms back, and i'll drown you instead." "keep dreaming." drying him off with a towel, he'd mumble insults the whole time. "your touch is repulsive." "says the guy who's basically a loofah now."
cooking with him around was hilarious. you'd be making ramen, and he'd demand a taste. "feed me the broth." you'd drip some in, and he'd slurp noisily. "mediocre. add more spice." "you're the spice, curse king." one time, you accidentally dropped hot sauce on him. he screamed—actually screamed. "agony! you wretch!" you rinsed him quick, but teased him forever. "the mighty sukuna, defeated by tabasco."
seasons changed, and you got him a little halloween costume—a tiny devil hat you glued on. "perfect for the king of curses." he tried to shake it off but couldn't. "remove this abomination!" "nope, it's festive." for christmas, a santa beard sticker. "ho ho ho, blob claus." he plotted holiday revenge. "i'll curse your gifts." but all he could do was glare.
months in, he started getting... chatty. not just insults, but stories. "in my era, i ruled with fear." you'd listen while eating takeout. "cool story, bro. want a fry?" he'd take it, then insult your taste. "greasy filth." but he ate it. obviously. he's a fat bitch. you shared bits of your life too. "missions suck. almost died today." he'd scoff. "weakling. if i had my body..." "yeah, yeah. but you don't. skill issue."
one day, he asked quietly, "why keep me? you could end me." you shrugged. "you're entertaining. and kinda pathetic. it's funny." he grumbled but didn't argue. truth was, you liked the banter. the back-and-forth. he was a pain, but your pain. and he was kinda cute— even if he was still a fat ass blob.
then, the shift happened out of nowhere—while you were knee-deep in some cursed spirit bullshit on a mission in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. no one knows how. maybe he finally sucked up enough cursed energy from your apartment, like a damn vacuum cleaner for bad vibes. or perhaps it was that weird eclipse or whatever astrological crap was going on that week. hell, for all you know, he just willed it into existence because he's sukuna, the king of curses, and blobs don't stay blobs forever. point is, you weren't there to witness the glowy, morphy spectacle. you were too busy exorcising some grade 2 curse that looked like a giant slug, covered in ectoplasm and regret.
you dragged your ass home after the mission, sore as hell, craving nothing more than a hot shower, leftover ramen, and maybe poking blobkuna to hear him whine. your apartment building looked normal from the outside—no explosions, no screams echoing down the halls. but as you unlocked the door, you heard it: chaos. pure, unadulterated mayhem. your cat, mr. whiskers (his og name the shelter gave him), was yowling like he'd seen the devil himself. and then a deep, rumbling laugh that sent chills down your spine. not blob squeaks. full-on, villainous baritone. you were cooked.
you pushed the door open, and there he was—ryomen sukuna in all his true form glory, four arms sprawling lazily across your couch like he owned the place (which, technically, he kinda did now). tattoos stark against his skin, eyes glowing with that demonic red hue, and a smirk that could curdle milk. but the real kicker? he had mr. whiskers dangling by the scruff in one massive hand, the poor furball hissing and swatting futilely at the air. sukuna was toying with him, waving him around like a damn cat toy. "pathetic creature," he growled, his voice echoing off your cheap wallpaper. "you dare challenge me? i could swallow you whole."
"what the actual fuck?!" you blurted, dropping your bag with a thud. your eyes darted around the room—total disaster zone. empty food wrappers everywhere: your secret stash of pocky sticks? gone. that tubs of ice cream you'd been saving for a bad day? licked clean, spoon still in the sink. bags of chips crumpled on the floor, your fridge door hanging open like it'd been raided by a bear. he'd eaten everything. all your fucking food. "sukuna? how—? you're... not a blob anymore?"
he dropped mr. whiskers unceremoniously—the cat bolted under the bed, tail puffed like a bottle brush—and turned those piercing eyes on you. "observant as ever, wench. yes, i've reclaimed my form. no thanks to you and your endless humiliations." he stretched, all four arms flexing, muscles rippling under that pale skin. your apartment suddenly felt ten times smaller with him in it, towering and radiating power. but he wasn't attacking. not yet. instead, he sauntered to your kitchenette, rummaging through the empty cabinets like he was looking for seconds. "your provisions were... adequate. barely. i required sustenance after my rebirth."
you couldn't help it—you burst out laughing. like, gut-busting, tears-in-your-eyes laughing. the king of curses, who once terrorized japan, reduced to blob status and now... what? a house invader munching on your snacks and bullying your cat? "oh my god, you ate all my food? you fat fuck! and leave mr. whiskers alone—he's got nine lives, but none to spare for your bullshit!" you clutched your sides, wheezing. sukuna's eyes narrowed, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. amusement? annoyance? hard to tell with him.
"insolent as always," he snarled, but he didn't sound pissed. more like... entertained. he grabbed a half-eaten apple from the counter—wait, that was your apple—and took a massive bite, juice dripping down his chin— that was oddly hot. "your feline is a coward. it fled at the sight of true power." mr. whiskers peeked out from under the bed, hissed once, then vanished again. you snorted. "yeah, because you're a giant tattooed freakshow now. what, did you chase him around the apartment? big bad sukuna vs. a ten-pound tabby. real kingly stuff."
he tossed the apple core into the sink—clunk—and advanced on you, slow and predatory. but you were still giggling, picturing it: blobkuna suddenly popping into full form, scaring the shit out of the cat, then waddling (wait, no, striding) to the fridge to binge. "did you at least leave me something? like, a crumb? i was gonna make instant noodles." sukuna loomed over you, his presence suffocating, but you poked his chest—hard, rippled muscle. "move, you oversized glutton. i need to assess the damage. type of greed they talk about in the bible"
he caught your wrist in one hand, not tight enough to hurt, but firm. "you dare command me? after keeping me as a... pet?" his other hands flexed, one raking through his pink hair, another gesturing at the mess. "i terrorized your beast for sport. it amused me while i waited." you yanked your hand free, still chuckling. "waited? for what, more snacks? you ate my entire pantry! that's like, war crimes level. and mr. whiskers? he's traumatized. look at him—hiding like a pussy." on cue, a pitiful meow echoed from under the bed.
sukuna's laugh boomed, echoing off the walls. "your tongue is as sharp as ever. perhaps i should have devoured the cat first." but he didn't move to do it. instead, he plopped back on the couch, which creaked under his weight, and patted the spot next to him mockingly. "sit, human. regale me with tales of your pathetic mission while i digest." you rolled your eyes but sat—far enough away, though. "fine, but you're buying groceries next time. with what money? curse money? ha. fucking chud." the banter flowed easy, like old times but amplified. him insulting your cooking ("your food was bland anyway"), you calling him a "refrigerator raider" and "cat tormentor." mr. whiskers eventually crept out, eyeing sukuna warily before jumping into your lap, purring defiantly. "see? he hates you." sukuna smirked. "he fears greatness."
you spent the next hour cleaning up his mess, tossing wrappers while he lounged, commenting on everything. "that shirt is hideous." "shut up, it's comfy." "your apartment is a hovel." "says the guy who lived in it as a blob." it was funny—surreal, domestic chaos with the deadliest curse alive. but underneath the laughs, tension simmered. his eyes tracked you, hungry in a way that wasn't about food anymore.
and then, the shift in the shift. you'd just finished wiping the counter, turning to face him, when sukuna rose fluidly, all grace and menace. "enough games," he murmured, voice dropping an octave. "you've mocked me long enough, girl. time for payback." before you could retort, two of his arms snatched you up, hoisting you against the wall with effortless strength. your breath hitched—half fear, half something hotter. "what—sukuna, wait—" but his mouth crashed onto yours, rough and demanding, teeth nipping your lip hard enough to draw blood. he licked it away.
his other two hands were everywhere—ripping your shirt open with a casual tear, buttons flying. "hey, that was my favorite!" you gasped, but he silenced you with another bruising kiss, his tongue invading, tasting like the apple he'd stolen. one hand pinned your wrists above your head, another squeezed your thigh, hiking your leg around his waist. the lower two? they worked your pants down, shredding the fabric like paper. "insolent wench," he hissed against your neck, biting down—sharp, marking you with curses that burned like fire but felt like ecstasy. "you kept me captive. humiliated me. now, i claim what's mine."
you squirmed, but it was half-hearted—your body betrayed you, arching into his touch. "payback? for what, eating your food? get over it, you big baby." he chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through you. "oh, i'll get over you. under you. through you." with that, he spun you around, slamming you onto the kitchen table—dishes clattering to the floor. mr. whiskers fled again, smart cat. sukuna's hands—four of them, god—pinned you down, one on each wrist, one on your hip, the last tangling in your hair to yank your head back. "look at you, spread out like a feast. fitting, since you starved me of power."
he ground against you from behind, and fuck—you felt it. them. two thick, hard cocks pressing through his loose pants (wait, where did he even get pants? cursed energy wardrobe?), one above the other, both throbbing with intent. "w-what the hell?" you stammered, twisting to glance back. his grin was feral. "my true form's gifts. you'll take both, girl. as punishment." he shredded his own clothes—poof, gone—and there they were: massive, veined, the upper one slightly curved, the lower straight and brutal, both leaking precum that dripped hot onto your skin.
no prep, no mercy—he lined up the lower one first, slamming in with one vicious thrust. you screamed, the stretch burning, filling you to the brink. "too big—fuck, sukuna!" he laughed, pulling your hair harder. "take it, slut. you mocked my size as a blob. now feel the real thing." he pounded relentlessly, the table shaking, your body jolting with each slam. his upper cock rubbed against your ass, teasing, while his hands roamed—pinching nipples, slapping your thighs, one dipping to rub your clit roughly. "wet already? pathetic. you wanted this, keeping me like a toy."
you moaned, incoherent, pleasure-pain blurring. "shut up—ah!—you ate my ice cream, asshole." he growled, switching—pulling out the lower cock, slick with your arousal, and pushing the upper one into your pussy while the lower nudged your ass. "insolence." he spat on your hole—nasty, degrading—then thrust both in at once. double penetration, no warning. you saw stars, body convulsing. "fuckfuckfuck—too much!" but he didn't stop, fucking you with alternating rhythms—one in, one out—stretching you impossibly.
his mouths—those extra ones on his hands and stomach—activated, licking and biting wherever they could reach. one hand-mouth sucked your clit, teeth grazing, while another bit your shoulder. "scream for me," he demanded, pace brutal, balls slapping skin. sweat slicked you both, the air thick with curses and moans. "you'll cum until you break, then beg for more." he flipped you onto your back mid-thrust, legs over his shoulders, both cocks buried deep—one in each hole now. "look at your king while he ruins you."
you did—eyes locked on his, hazy with lust. he fucked harder, one hand choking your throat just enough, another stroking your oversensitive spots. "cum, whore. now." you shattered, orgasm ripping through you, squirting around him. but he didn't stop—kept pounding, chasing his own release. "not done. take my seed." he roared, both cocks pulsing, flooding you with hot, thick cum—overflowing, dripping down your thighs. "marked. mine."
he pulled out slow, watching his mess leak, then shoved back in for good measure. "round two? or do you yield?" you panted, grinning weakly. "yield? never, fat fuck." he smirked. "good. the night is young." and so it went—hours of nasty, relentless fucking: on the couch (which broke), against the wall (cracks formed), even in the shower where he washed you only to dirty you again. two dicks meant no respite—one always filling while the other teased. he came in your mouth, on your tits, everywhere—claiming every inch. by dawn, you were wrecked, sore, satisfied. "payback achieved," he murmured, holding you close with all four arms. but the bickering? eternal. "next time, don't eat my food." "next time, don't keep me as a blob."
